Truancy City

by Isamu Fukui

  Walking at a brisk pace they soon reached Cross’ old neighborhood, still recognizable even with empty streets and vacant buildings. Cross felt a brief moment of nostalgia as he spotted a fire hydrant that he’d played with as a kid. There were still no soldiers around.

  “They must not have enough soldiers to patrol every block of every district,” the albino mused. “At this rate we really might reach District 20 soon.”

  Cross finally allowed himself to believe it. Their journey was almost over. It had only been a week since the Militia had disbanded, but to Cross it felt like a year on the run, a hunted man.

  “What exactly should I do when I meet him?” Cross wondered. “We were enemies last time we met. He nearly killed me.”

  “Well, first things first—relax,” the albino replied. “Keep your shoulders straight and hold your head high. Just be confident and speak from the heart, you’re much more persuasive that way. You do want a free City, yes?”

  “Of course I do,” Cross said. “Maybe I didn’t really believe that at first, but after meeting Noni and seeing those kids down in the subway … I know that things shouldn’t be like that.” Cross watched Zen skipping happily up the street. “Things don’t have to be like that.”

  The albino was silent for a moment. “Well said,” she said at last. “You’ve grown a lot in a short time. I’m proud of you.”

  Cross felt a twinge of embarrassment. He quickly changed the subject.

  “That’s my house over there,” he said, pointing at a plain-looking brownstone. “I was the only one who ever took care of it, so I’m sure it’s filthy by now, but it’s better than the subways.”

  The albino frowned. “Did your father ever do anything?”

  Cross shook his head. “Just me. He was always out, doing work for the Enforcers. Whenever he did come home”—Cross grimaced as he recalled bruising pain—“it was like a monster breaking in.”

  “I was separated from my family when I was six,” the albino said. “The Educators evaluated my ‘condition’ and decided I could never be a normal student. At that point I think my parents were glad to be rid of me.”

  Reaching the building, Cross glanced up at the door. It was a little older, a little more worn than he remembered.

  “Did you ever consider going back home?” he asked. “After all that happened?”

  She smiled. “It never crossed my mind.”

  Cross reached into his pocket and fished out a single key. With one final glance around to make sure that the street was empty, he slid the key into the lock. It still fit. Cross felt a moment of trepidation as he turned the knob, as though he were disturbing an old tomb haunted by its past.

  The door creaked open, and they entered.

  * * *

  Iris and Umasi were having dinner in her office, their neat table surrounded by monitors and classified documents. It was an informal affair, but something they had taken to doing regularly. It gave them an opportunity to swap advice and discuss news of the City. For Umasi, it felt reminiscent of meals he used to have with the Mayor and Zen. Then, as now, he gave his sibling his undivided attention. Matters of great importance could be decided over a dinner table.

  “The relief effort is finally underway, though not robustly as I’d hoped.” Iris poured herself a glass of wine. “We’ve resumed commercial shipments, so goods are now flowing into District 1 and the surrounding area.”

  “So where does the problem lie?” Umasi asked.

  “With nearly the rest of the entire City,” Iris replied, taking a sip. “While the civilians around here are relatively feasting, the situation is desperate elsewhere. Many roads still need to be cleared, and to make matters worse, we only have one commercial harbor active right now.”

  “Perhaps supplies can be airlifted for distribution in the other districts?”

  “That would be at best a temporary and expensive measure.” Iris shook her head. “It might not even be possible. Protocol forbids civilians from working in an active war zone—which most of the City is still classified as. My soldiers can’t carry out that kind of operation on their own.”

  Umasi poked at his main dish, pasta in some kind of clam sauce, thinking about the refugees and civilians starving in some forgotten corner of the City. He had known hunger himself when he’d lived among the vagrants. He knew the weakness, the desperation, the shame that came with it.

  “Chin up,” Iris said, seeing his face. “You needn’t worry. Aside from that hiccup with the Student Militia, the camp program is proceeding on schedule. The results will open up the rest of the city to our relief effort.”

  Umasi shook his head. “A large number of renegades are still evading the camps. We’re not making enough progress on that front.”

  Iris brushed her forehead with her knuckles.

  “That is true, unfortunately,” she admitted. “There are rumors circulating among the civilians. Parents are hiding their children. People don’t believe that we won’t seek retribution for slain soldiers.”

  “And they’re wrong, of course.”

  “Of course,” Iris said. “The only problem is getting them to believe it.”

  Umasi thought about that. Not too long ago even he had been convinced that Iris was his enemy, and that the Government could not be trusted. His experiences since then had convinced him otherwise, but how could they spread that understanding to the rest of the City? Umasi blinked. A possibility had just occurred to him.

  “Allow me to explain the situation to them,” Umasi told Iris. “I am known to the Truancy, among others in the City. I can be the public face of the program. If you can get me that civilian post we discussed—”

  “That post isn’t mine to give, Umasi,” Iris interrupted. “And to be a spokesperson for the camps might be dangerous. From what you’ve told me, the Truants are stubborn. They might turn on you.”

  “That would be better than lounging around here, useless,” Umasi said. “The kids in this City will never listen to an outsider. At the very least they will hear me out. Iris, there must be something I can do.”

  Iris sighed, setting her glass down. She took a moment to collect her thoughts.

  “Very well,” she said at last. “For now I can have you mediate for the squads that are conducting raids. It’s not a very dangerous job. Just go in after the fact and explain everything to the children and their families.” Iris smiled. “And while you’re doing that, I’ll try to pull some strings to get you the post you want.”

  Umasi smiled back, relieved to have something constructive to do. Iris finally seemed to understand how restless, how powerless he’d felt ever since the end of the conflict.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Can you pass the wine?”

  Iris did, and the two drank a quick toast to new beginnings, then resumed eating. The food was quite good, prepared by a City chef in the kitchens of the Mayoral Mansion. It wasn’t until they had turned to their dessert course, a chocolate soufflé, that Iris dropped another surprise on Umasi.

  “By the way,” she said, pointing her spoon at him, “it appears that the Rothenberg gamble has already started to yield results.”

  Umasi blinked.

  “Surely he can’t have already found—”

  “No, not Cross. Not yet, anyway.” Iris shook her head. “Yesterday by chance he helped apprehend a girl named Noni. That former Truant you were so worried about.”

  That was a surprise. Feeling a combination of shock, relief, and a little guilt, Umasi put down his napkin.

  “Is she all right?” he asked.

  “She did sustain some injures. She’s being treated as we speak.”

  Umasi exhaled. “I would like to talk to her, as soon as she’s well.”

  Iris shrugged, digging her spoon back into her soufflé. “That can be arranged.”

  “I appreciate it,” Umasi said, turning his attention back to his meal. “So, where is Rothenberg now?”

  “He had a hunch that his son might have pass
ed through District 18.” Iris glanced at her watch. “If his driver hasn’t run into any delays, he should be in his old apartment right now.”

  * * *

  Cross and the albino entered the old apartment first, with Zen right behind them. It was hard to see in the gloom, and they didn’t dare to try the lights. Still, it was clear that the place was pretty dusty, the furniture left exactly as Cross remembered leaving it years ago.

  “The bathroom is at the end of the hall,” Cross said, pointing. “The kitchen is to the left. That’s the living room to the right. My … father’s room is over there, and my old room is next to it.”

  “I’m tired,” Zen complained.

  “Me too, love,” the albino told him. “Why don’t we go get cleaned up and then get some rest?”

  “M’kay.”

  The albino nodded at Cross and led Zen off down the hall. Cross watched them go, taking in his surroundings. It was a strange feeling to step back into a place that was so familiar, frozen in time, filled with memories. Bad memories.

  Cross shook his head. He had work to do. Slinging their bag over his shoulder, he entered the kitchen. Their supplies were still adequate, bolstered during their journey by anything they could rummage out of old stores or markets. Even so, he began opening drawers looking for anything he’d left behind that might be useful.

  Cross collected some silverware, sharp knives, a corkscrew, and cooking utensils. Stuffing them into his bag, he opened a cupboard and found it full of canned goods. He paused. That wasn’t right. It took him a moment to remember, but then he was sure. He hadn’t used this cupboard for cans.

  Cross seized a can and checked it—the date was recent.

  A primal fear took root in the pit of his stomach. Cross noticed that the refrigerator had power. He flung it open. The light flickered on, revealing shelves stuffed with food and beer. His heart racing, it occurred to Cross that the kitchen was not as dusty as it should be.

  Cross ran out of the kitchen. There was a noise in the hall. He turned to warn the albino.

  “Teacher, I think we’re in troub—”

  Cross froze. A massive shadow stood in the hallway. It stepped forward, and Cross gasped. Rothenberg glowered back at him, a large hammer clutched in his hands.

  * * *

  “You woke me up, boy,” Rothenberg whispered. “You know that means a beating.”

  Rothenberg felt a twinge of disappointment as Cross stood dumbstruck before him. The boy’s jaw was slack, his eyes wide with horror. After four years, it seemed that Cross hadn’t grown up at all—could this spineless wimp really be his son? Rothenberg shoved Cross to the ground with one mighty push.

  Cross looked up from the floor as Rothenberg towered over him, a familiar position for both of them. Rothenberg had thought that Cross might have already passed through the apartment, but he had never expected to actually catch him there.

  His cleverness surprised even himself.

  “This house is filthy, Cross!” Rothenberg roared. “Didn’t I tell you to keep it neat while I was gone? Before I drag you back to the Government, I’m going to make you clean this whole mess!”

  Rothenberg dropped the hammer. It fell with a thud beside Cross’ head. Rothenberg seized him by the scruff of his neck, then slammed him against the wall. Cross seemed to be trying to babble out some sort of an apology, but Rothenberg was having none of it.

  “I hear you’ve caused a lot of trouble, boy,” Rothenberg said. “You’re lucky it was me who found you—Iris would’ve had you skinned alive. You see how I’m always looking out for you, Cross? You’d better show some gratitude this time!”

  Cross cringed, and Rothenberg laughed in delight. Things had gone better than he’d ever hoped. With this success he would earn the lasting thanks of the Government, and he would also be able to resume rearing Cross as he pleased, to correct whatever damage had been done while he was gone. It was almost too good to be true!

  A metallic tinkling filled the air, and Rothenberg saw Cross’ expression turn from alarm to relief.

  Before Rothenberg could twitch, something metal struck him squarely on the side of the head. He saw stars, and with a shout of surprise released his grip. Cross slid down the wall. Rothenberg staggered back from the blow, but did not fall. He turned to see what had hit him, a scowl on his face.

  Then Rothenberg’s face went as pale as his attacker.

  “It can’t be,” he whispered.

  The ghost drew her chain back, a cold expression on her face, the same face that had haunted Rothenberg years ago. If there was anything positive to be said about his captivity, it was that he had been untroubled by this phantom. Remembering his encounters with her on the streets and in his dreams, Rothenberg began to shake. The ghost had finally come for him.

  The ghost began twirling her chain again. Rothenberg let out a terrified roar, then seized his hammer from the floor, desperately charging down the hallway like a bull.

  The ghost released the chain with casual ease, and the ring struck him square on the forehead. There was pain, stars, and then Rothenberg hit the floor.

  The ghost advanced upon him, her chain tinkling as it swayed. Cross watched the encounter from a corner, a look of dumb shock on his face. Rothenberg scrambled to get back up, to flee, to somehow escape this spirit of vengeance.

  “Stay back!” He pointed a trembling finger at the ghost. “You’re not real!”

  She halted in front of him, and Rothenberg felt as though he were shrinking before her.

  “This isn’t the first time we’ve met, is it?” the ghost said. “I know your face. You were so easy to scare off that I never even suspected that you were Rothenberg. I expected someone less cowardly.”

  Rothenberg stared. The ghost had never spoken before. Something clicked in his head, and for the first time Rothenberg dared to look closer at his attacker. It was the same figure, certainly, but older now, and dressed differently. Did ghosts age and change clothes? As the truth finally dawned on him, a slow smile spread across Rothenberg’s face.

  As if seeing the smile and knowing what it must mean, Cross slid his knife from his sheath and lunged. Rothenberg twisted to face the new threat.

  “Cross, no!”

  The girl’s voice seemed to affect Cross like a dog whistle, and the boy froze, knife inches from Rothenberg’s throat. Rothenberg looked down at the hand that held the blade. It was shaking. Pathetic.

  Cross looked into his father’s eyes, and Rothenberg glared back. There was only hatred and contempt between them.

  Rothenberg sneered. “Do it, boy. If you have the guts.”

  Cross’ hand twitched. The girl placed her hand on his shoulder.

  “Don’t listen to him, Cross,” she said. “Don’t become him. He wants you to do it. You’re better than that. You’re your own person.”

  Cross wavered, and for a moment appeared to entertain the idea of disobeying. Then he exhaled, and the tension in his muscles eased. The girl patted him on the shoulder, and Rothenberg let out a derisive snort.

  As the girl began to bind Rothenberg’s hands and feet with rope, Cross continued to hold the knife to his father’s throat. Rothenberg did not struggle, but he was no longer frightened either. Understanding now that he had been deceived, he glared at the pale girl with muted anger.

  “Should we gag him?” Cross asked once they were done.

  The girl shook her head. “No need. There’s no one around to hear him anyway.”

  “Then we should leave right now.”

  “I agree. We’ll go straight through District 19, as fast as possible. Coming here was a mistake.”

  Rothenberg watched from the floor as the pair ransacked the house for anything useful. They emptied all of the canned goods from the cupboard, and took drinks from the refrigerator. They discovered Rothenberg’s radio in the bedroom and took that as well. It was enough to fill another bag, and so they retrieved one of Cross’ old school backpacks from a closet in his room.


  Then, after fetching Zen from inside the locked bathroom, they headed for the door. Rothenberg grinned as Cross couldn’t help but cast another glance at him.

  “You better run, boy,” he said. “You’ve crossed the line now. When I catch up to you, it’s not going to end with the usual beating.”

  A dark look flitted across Cross’ face, and he slammed his fist against the wall, denting it. Then he turned away and stormed out the door. The girl watched him go, then ushered Zen out the door. She paused for a moment.

  Her eyes met Rothenberg’s through the gloom.

  “He was your son,” she said finally. “How could you?”

  “Don’t run your mouth about what you don’t understand,” Rothenberg spat. “You’ll regret making a fool of me, you paper-skinned freak.”

  For a moment it seemed as though the girl’s eyes blazed even in the darkness. Rothenberg smiled at having provoked a human emotion from her. Making a small noise of disgust, the girl turned to leave.

  “I don’t know what you are, little monster!” Rothenberg called. “But now I know you’re no ghost. That means you can die.”

  The girl did not turn around.

  “There is a monster in this room,” she said. “And it will still be here when I’m gone.”

  Then the door shut behind her, leaving Rothenberg alone in the darkness.

  22

  FOR YOUR OWN GOOD

  Umasi peered through the glass viewing port and into the sterile ward. His attention was focused on a girl with black hair strapped down to a gurney. It was unmistakably Noni, her chest rising and falling in regular rhythm, though otherwise she was motionless.

  “She’s healthy enough to talk, then?” Umasi asked, turning to the doctor next to him.