Truancy

by Isamu Fukui

  “Mr. Flint, I expect you to answer quickly and accurately,” Zyid lectured. “Of course, I will not tolerate dishonesty. Dishonesty on a test would make you a cheater, and the harshest punishments of all are reserved for cheaters.”

  At this cryptic statement Mr. Flint seemed genuinely spooked. The child who was so imperiously giving him commands was entirely unlike any other he’d ever dealt with, despite his many years of experience, and that was … unsettling. But still, a kid was a kid. He’d handled rowdier students than this. Mr. Flint was spooked, but not yet scared.

  “Look, kid, just cut the crap and let me go,” he ordered harshly.

  Zyid narrowed his eyes, then sighed. Turning to Tack, who had been observing the interrogation impassively, he gave a sharp nod. Tack almost reflexively twisted the valve he had been gripping rather tightly, and immediately wondered what he’d just done.

  A drop of water slowly congealed in the mouth of the pipe on the ceiling, falling down to splash upon Mr. Flint’s forehead.

  “What the hell?” Mr. Flint exclaimed, caught off-guard.

  “Witness what dedicated research can accomplish, Mr. Flint,” Zyid said as another drop of water fell upon the principal’s head. “Today’s lesson will be about water torture. I stumbled across this in a book. How it works is that I will continue to drip drops of water onto your head.”

  “Yeah, so?” Mr. Flint demanded, with just a hint of doubt.

  “So, as the drops slowly continue to fall, your mind will begin anticipating and even dreading the next drop. After a mere few hours, your own brain will begin to betray you. Each drop will feel like a hammer blow to the head, slowly but surely robbing you of your sanity. I can wait for days, Mr. Flint.”

  “You’re crazy.” Mr. Flint gasped as another drop slid down his face.

  “Perhaps. But you’re not a guidance counselor, and you’re in no position to diagnose me, Mr. Flint,” Zyid pointed out coolly. “Now, you have wasted enough of my class time already. We have a test to take, and the sooner it’s over, the sooner you can go home. Of course, if you don’t appreciate this artistic fate I’ve prepared for you, I have more immediate disciplinary measures available.”

  Zyid gestured towards a bottle of lighter fluid and a box of matches that lay over in a corner. Mr. Flint glared at the objects for a moment before slumping atop the stretcher.

  “What do you want to know?” Mr. Flint asked in a resigned voice.

  “Ah, ready to begin then?” Zyid observed. “Verbal responses will be acceptable, Mr. Flint, and you will be graded at my sole discretion. Question one, have the Educators briefed you on a group called ‘the Truancy’?”

  “The what?”

  “The Truancy.”

  “You mean students that cut class?”

  “I mean an organization.”

  “No, nothing about that.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I’d know what they told me.”

  “I’m sure you would. Question two, when and where is the next scheduled Educator meeting going to take place?”

  “The school budget committee meets next Tuesday, in the Waterfront Hotel, top floor ballroom.”

  “Excellent. Question three…”

  For the next fifteen minutes, Tack watched in amazement as Zyid covered topics ranging from attendance rates to the addresses of prominent Educators. Mr. Flint did not always have answers, and Zyid made a point of writing something down on a clipboard every time it happened. This, combined with the continued drops of water, seemed to slowly throw Mr. Flint into hysteria. Finally, Zyid reached the bottom of his list, and crumpled up the paper.

  “You have a passing grade, Mr. Flint, but there’s plenty of room for improvement.”

  “L-let me go now!”

  “Oh, someone will, sooner or later, but you see, I have a busy schedule, and I’ve no time to cater to every one of my students’ needs.”

  “You madman! You goddamn madman! Get me out of here!”

  “I enjoyed this, Mr. Flint; perhaps we should do it again sometime,” Zyid said, though there was definitely no trace of enjoyment on his face. “Come, Takan; it seems that you and Noni will be busy for the next few weeks.”

  Tack followed Zyid out of the rusty room, leaving the principal’s anguished cries behind. As they climbed together out of the dusty construction site, Tack found a newly stoked anger boiling vaguely in his gut. No one deserved that. It would be days before the construction crew returned to work, and there Mr. Flint would lie, slowly losing his sanity until he died of thirst. But strangely, even as Tack mustered up the resolve to say something, the only way he found to express his rage in Zyid’s presence was with a quiet question.

  “What about the principal?”

  “We leave him there,” Zyid said, after only a moment’s hesitation.

  “For how long?” Tack demanded.

  “Remember, Takan, act without mercy,” Zyid said softly as they walked over to two waiting bikes, Noni having already taken the third. “He lies there for long as it takes for them to find him.”

  Zyid mounted his bike and silently rode away, leaving a horrified Tack to grip his handlebars tightly.

  * * *

  The boy sat on his cot in the darkness of the orphanage’s dormitory, using a flashlight to illuminate the latest entry in the scrapbook that he had carefully assembled over the course of two years.

  Two years.

  For two long, boring years he had bided his time in this festering place, going to school every day, living amidst the other orphans, all of whom were nothing but stupid and ignorant. He didn’t remember his parents, though before they had died they had at least left enough money to prevent their son from becoming a vagrant—enough to condemn him to life in a City orphanage. And now, after two dull years, he finally held in his hands that which he had been waiting for all along.

  It was a newspaper clipping, whose headline read:

  EDUCATORS SEEK BOY FROM DISTRICT 19

  The boy felt his hands trembling with excitement, scarcely able to believe that at last he’d have a chance to realize his dark dreams.

  At first he had believed the article to be about Umasi, his old mentor, the self-absorbed pacifist in voluntary exile, and he had cursed the paper for writing about the fool. But inevitably, curiosity had prompted him to read the article. Only when he had read the description of the boy they sought did he realize that it was him they were looking for. And he knew why—if they were bothering to search for him, it could only mean that they needed his help.

  The boy was Edward, a sixteen-year-old child with a bitter history and a monstrous ambition.

  Edward flipped back a few pages in the scrapbook, idly browsing through the countless other articles that he had gathered over the years. There were obituaries for Enforcers, stories covering the mysterious gas explosions, the power outage, the demolition of the District 1 School, and more. It was all there, and Edward knew the secret behind it. He knew of the Truancy. For the past two years he had studied them from the shadows.

  And now the boy grinned wickedly, for he knew exactly how to destroy them.

  17

  THE TASTE OF BLOOD

  “So … er … nice day today,” Tack said lamely.

  Noni voiced no answer, but turned her icy, piercing eyes on him. It took Tack a few seconds to realize that he suddenly felt embarrassed. Tack quickly looked away; trying to make conversation with Noni was turning out to be harder than killing Enforcers. Unfortunately, there was nothing else to do up on the rooftop on which the two of them stood.

  Zyid hadn’t lied back at the construction site; Tack and Noni had been very busy for the past week, darting all over the City to act on the information that the principal had provided. As a result, the number of recently deceased Educators and Enforcers had steadily piled up. Up until now, Zyid had never asked Noni or Tack to work together, having observed the tension between them. This evening, however, he had insisted that the Educator meeti
ng going on directly below them couldn’t be handled by one Truant.

  And so Tack and Noni now stood side by side atop the Waterfront Hotel under the blue sky. They wore heavy backpacks, waiting for the meeting to start, and doggedly avoided each other’s gaze in the meantime. Tack was beginning to question Zyid’s judgment in sending the two of them together; he couldn’t see how he was supposed to work with someone he couldn’t talk to, and he was sure that Noni was having the same problem. Nagging traces of guilt still began to tug at Tack’s conscience, as they always did in Noni’s presence. Suddenly, it occurred to Tack that he had an opportunity now to clear the air.

  “I’m sorry about what happened in our duel,” Tack said suddenly.

  Noni’s head snapped around, and this time Tack held her gaze as she probed him with her icy, glinting eyes. Suddenly, and entirely unexpectedly, Noni reached up and pulled her scarf down to her neck, revealing the long, ugly gash across her face. Tack only realized that he was staring when he noticed Noni glaring at him.

  “Pretty horrible, isn’t it?” she said bitterly.

  “No, no, it’s not!” Tack protested earnestly. “You look fine!”

  Noni looked at Tack suspiciously, as if searching for some trace of mockery. Finding none, she seemed to relax slightly and even sat down on the hard roof.

  “I owe my life to Zyid, you know,” Noni said. “He saved me, a long time ago. I’ve been with him since before there ever was a Truancy.”

  “But you’re still helping him now,” Tack pointed out, simultaneously surprised and pleased that Noni was talking to him at all.

  “It’s not like before.” Noni shook her head. “You’re his new favorite now; you should know what it’s like.”

  Tack grimaced. He did know what it was like, and he had a hard time tolerating it, and an even harder time imagining why anyone would want it.

  “I didn’t mean to replace you,” Tack said honestly; if anything, he was regretting that he had.

  “I know you didn’t.” Noni sighed. “When he found me, I was alone, scared, insecure, confused. I was weak, so I drew on his strength; I let him guide me so that I wouldn’t have to worry about what to do.”

  “And so now he’s not guiding you anymore?” Tack asked tentatively, amazed at what he was hearing.

  Noni nodded and then averted her gaze again, looking as if she regretted having spoken at all. Tack let her alone and pondered what he’d heard. Tack hated his position as Zyid’s “favorite,” and yet Noni coveted it fiercely. Tack would’ve gladly given it up if he could, but that wasn’t his decision to make. Cursing Zyid silently, Tack looked over again at Noni, who had withdrawn a water bottle from her backpack and was drinking from it, her scarf still around her neck. Noticing Tack looking at her, Noni turned and cocked her head at him.

  “Are you thirsty?” Noni asked, looking sideways at Tack.

  “Huh?” Tack blurted, shaken from his thoughts.

  “Are you thirsty?” Noni repeated, looking curiously at him.

  “Oh … yeah, sure,” Tack replied, realizing that he was thirsty after all.

  Noni screwed the top back onto the water bottle and tossed it over to Tack. Clutching the cool cylinder in his hands, Tack found himself wondering idly just how long it had been since he’d tasted lemonade. Looking up to find that Noni was watching him intently, Tack’s face unconsciously flushed red. Removing the cap from the bottle, Tack hoped feverishly that she hadn’t noticed anything. Tack gratefully tipped the bottle back and took a large gulp …

  … and then promptly spit it out, gasping heavily. He looked at the bottle in shock, wondering if he’d gone crazy. The liquid he had spit out was splayed out on the ground, crystal clear, and yet Tack wouldn’t have been surprised to see it turn dark red at any moment. The drink had barely touched his tongue for a second, but Tack was sure that it had tasted like blood.

  “I take it you’ve never had mineral water before?” Noni asked, actually sounding amused now.

  Tack looked up to find her smiling faintly, something that he’d never seen before. He shook off his shock and looked at the bottle again.

  “Why does it taste like—”

  “Blood?” Noni finished.

  Tack nodded.

  “It’s the iron, I think,” Noni said, looking away. “It’s in our blood and the water too.”

  Tack looked at Noni. Her scarf had still remained around her neck, her ugly scar still clearly visible. Tack hesitated for a second, and then, though he was unsure of why, he spoke.

  “You can’t replace blood, Noni,” he said quietly.

  Noni’s head snapped around to face him. Tack maintained his level gaze, wondering for a minute what he had actually meant and what she had interpreted it to mean. Noni brought her hand up to her scar, seemed to stiffen for a moment, and then slouched, nodding silently. Tack breathed a personal sigh of relief, then looked again at the bottle he held in his hand. Remembering how thirsty he was, Tack raised it to his lips and took another drink.

  This time it didn’t taste so bad.

  “You hear that?” Noni said, suddenly tense.

  Tack froze, listening intently. The muffled sound of conversation had slowly begun to drift up from under them. Tack nodded silently at Noni, who gracefully darted over to the large skylight on the roof and peered directly down into the ballroom below. Tack moved to crouch down next to her, and saw that a number of blurry figures wearing what looked like expensive suits had begun to sit down at the conference table conveniently located beneath the skylight.

  “I count fourteen,” Noni whispered, her icy eyes dancing around the room below.

  “There may be some out of sight,” Tack pointed out.

  “Open with a smoke bomb then, if we don’t know what we’re dealing with?” Noni murmured.

  “And one of the bigger pipe bombs at the same time,” Tack agreed. “That alone should get most of the ones at the table.”

  “You deal with the explosives,” Noni suggested. “I’ll pick off the survivors.”

  Tack didn’t argue; he was still adjusting to using guns, as they were the one weapon that Umasi had always made a point of not talking about. Noni quickly removed a semiautomatic from her backpack, while Tack unloaded a white brick of smoke bomb material, as well as a large section of concrete pipe sealed at both ends with a fuse sticking out of it. Tack knelt over the window, drew a lighter from his pocket, and clutched the heavy plastic pipe bomb in his arms as Noni checked her weapon.

  “Ready?” Tack whispered, holding the unlit lighter to the fuse.

  “Waiting on you.” Noni nodded.

  Tack clicked the lighter on, touched it to the fuse, then lifted the pipe bomb over his head and smashed it through the window before dropping it. Shards of glass sparkled and flew downwards even as the pipe bomb plunked down on the table below. The men in the room had only begun to shout when the bomb exploded, sending shrapnel flying outwards in all directions. There were screams, and then gunshots as Noni began determinedly firing down at anything that moved.

  Tack heard the sound of doors below slamming open, and decided that reinforcements had entered the room. Tack grabbed the white brick, touched his lighter to its fuse, and then hurled it downwards quickly. It detonated, and thick white smoke began swiftly filling the room, but not before Tack caught a glimpse of dark figures running in, brandishing guns.

  “Time to go,” Tack said urgently, turning to Noni. “Before they figure out that we’re up here.”

  Noni nodded, though Tack noticed that her eyes were once more brilliantly fierce. While the men below fired their weapons through the smoke, vainly trying to hit enemies that they couldn’t see, Noni and Tack dashed over to the door leading to the stairs, where they paused briefly. They had both dressed casually and might stand a chance of blending in if they cast aside their backpacks and guns, but there was always the possibility that the guards might just shoot down any children they saw.

  “Should we risk it?” Tack aske
d.

  “We’ll go without the guns,” Noni said decisively. “If anyone tries to stop us, I have my knives and you have your sword.”

  Tack’s hand unconsciously reached down to touch the hilt of his ceramic blade.

  “All right,” Tack said, dropping his backpack without regret.

  Noni cast aside her rifle and dropped her backpack next to Tack’s. Then they opened the door and dashed down the flight of stairs as fast as they could. Reaching the second-to-top floor, they exited the stairwell and made for the nearest elevator. As they did, three grim-faced men in black suits burst out of one of the hotel rooms. Two of them dashed for the stairs immediately, but one of them stopped to eye Noni and Tack suspiciously.

  “You two, what are you doing here?” the man demanded, raising a pistol menacingly.

  “We’re trying to find our parents,” Tack said, injecting a note of fear into his voice. “We heard the noises upstairs—what’s going on?”

  The man hesitated and looked them over uncertainly.

  “What’s that?” he demanded, pointing at Tack’s sword.

  “It’s a toy; I got it for my birthday,” Tack lied.

  The man paused, then lowered his gun. The next thing Tack knew, Noni had plunged a knife into the man’s throat. The hapless Enforcer gurgled and gasped horribly as blood sputtered from his neck, and Noni dispassionately relieved him of his pistol, threw it aside, and wiped her knife on his suit. The move had been so cold-bloodedly executed that Tack looked over at Noni, slightly horrified.

  “There was no need for that; he was lowering his weapon,” Tack said weakly.

  “We can’t take any chances,” Noni said flatly, her voice so mechanically cold that she seemed like an entirely different person from the one Tack had spoken with on the roof. “We need to go, now. We cannot be seen here.”

  Tack gritted his teeth and looked down at the man, whose blood was still flowing freely from his throat. Noni was right; they couldn’t be seen here. Deciding to pursue the topic later, Tack shook his head and followed Noni down the hall, around a corner, past countless doors until they reached the elevators. Noni quickly pressed the elevator buttons, and Tack was pleased to see one arrive quickly. Noni and Tack piled into it, finding that it was comfortably empty except for them.