Trains, Japanese and miniskirts

KAREN SEIDEL
SISSA, Northern Mediterranean Sea – Upper Train Station
2nd June 42 SE 11.07

“Fuck!”

Normally, hearing something like that would’ve made me spin around, eyebrows raised in utter shock. I mean, what kind of girl would ever let something like that slip? Sure, maybe a guy could get away with it — some do — but none of my friends would dare, at least not in front of others. And definitely not me. I’d never.

But this time? There was no turning around, no judgmental look. In fact, I couldn’t have come up with better words, I found myself thinking.

It was just after eleven, and I was standing there on the external station, eyes glued to the scene as the Japanese contingent arrived. There were only a handful of us waiting— three or four, maybe, all girls — sitting on a bench near the second platform, trying not to draw too much attention. Most of our comrades were still unpacking in their rooms, getting settled in, while a few had already begun wandering around the academy, probably to get an early sense of where we’d be tested. The diligent ones were no doubt already studying. Good for them. I had different plans, though. I’m too curious to sit still, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to focus yet.

So, I’d thrown on the overalls the Machines had assigned me, unpacked up my few belongings, made a quick stop at the café, and then came straight back to the station. I couldn’t help it—I had to see them. I’d never seen a foreigner up close before.

The students from the Northern Crown had shown up around ten, not long after us. I’d been stuck with registration forms at the time, so I couldn’t step away to check them out, but honestly, they didn’t interest me much. They’re closer to us than Japan, after all, so they didn’t have that exotic aura I found so intriguing. I mean, Denmark is probably just like Scotland, right? I doubt Sweden or Norway are all that different either—maybe just a bit blonder. But Japan? Japan was another story entirely.

Traveling there is next to impossible. Even if someone could somehow convince the Ministry to grant them permission to leave the country, there’s no reliable transport for that route. Actually, that route doesn’t even exist anymore. If you really want to go, you’d have to get the Machines involved. And you’d better have a damn good reason for it, or they’ll shut you down. At least, that’s what my dad always says.

Anyway, at that moment, it wasn’t the Machines that mattered — it was the Japanese. First off, there were loads of them. A quick glance told me there must’ve been around two hundred. Makes sense, really, since they come from the most populous state among those participating in these selections. If I remember correctly, Japan has close to twelve million people, and Tokyo’s supposed to be the second-largest city in Asia, with a population of about 100,000. That’s way more than London. And let’s not even get into my Edinburgh, which, with its 13,000 residents, feels like a village in comparison. But things are changing, I can tell. In a few years, once we can start farming outside the urban domes again, it’ll all be different.

Anyway, back to the Japanese. There were a lot of them, but they were so organised. When we got off the train, each of us was chatting away, splitting into little groups, and for those of us who weren’t talking, it was only because we were too busy staring at the hyper-tech station around us. And, of course, there were plenty of people snapping pictures. So many pictures, which was probably overkill considering we’d be here for at least a week. But it was the first trip away from home for almost all of us, so I guess that’s understandable.

The Japanese, though? They weren’t doing any of that. They were orderly, disciplined, and precise. Calm and serious, like they were marching in some kind of military parade. The four of us on the other bench probably made more noise just watching them than they did. It was unbelievable.

The thing that caught me most off guard, though, was the hair. I mean, I knew about it — I was prepared — but part of me still didn’t believe it. I mean, who hasn’t seen or read manga? We’ve all done it. In fact, we even studied a few in school during our history and comparative cultures lessons.

But seeing those hair colours in real life? Totally different. It’s just not something you see every day. Pink hair? Blue hair? Seriously, when does that ever happen? To be fair, at least half the students had black, straight hair, which is typical in Japan, I suppose. But the others? Completely different story. And I’m not even talking about natural colours like blonde or brown — some of them had shades that seemed impossible.

And I knew, from what I’d read, that it wasn’t because of dye. It’s something called ‘tissue engineering.’ That’s what they call it: eyes, hair, whatever color you want, plus other enhancements if you like. Scotland? Nowhere near that kind of thing. And I don’t think the Great Britain is either. Since the split into two allied but still autonomous nations, London and Edinburgh don’t communicate as much as they used to, though they still keep in touch. If anything like that had happened here, I would’ve known about it. I’ve been to London, after all. But no—just the same dull colours, the ones I’ve seen a thousand times before. Nothing like what I was looking at now.

But right there, just twenty meters away, there was a girl my age in a sleek black school uniform with long pink hair over their shoulders. It was the kind of sight that would make you swear out loud. And not just a single “fuck!” No, you’d need at least three or four in a row for something like that. Anything less just wouldn’t do it justice.

We all stayed quiet until the platform cleared. No big deal—the Japanese were so well-organised that it didn’t take them more than ten minutes.

And then, as always happens in situations like this, we found ourselves talking all at once. Four girls who’d never met before, didn’t even know each other’s names, sitting together on a bench at the outer station of SISSA, the large artificial island in the Mediterranean built by the Machines to host the first university of our era. Four girls chatting like old friends, knowing full well that come Monday, we’d be competing against one another in the field, fighting for spots in the first degree programs of the new world. Four girls who should have been rivals, but at that moment, couldn’t wait to share their thoughts on what we had just witnessed.

The conversation started with us talking about their hair colour, and soon enough, it shifted to the rumours about their eyes — though we hadn’t been able to see them clearly from that distance, so we couldn’t be sure.

‘But then, if it’s true they can change things like that, then…’ one girl murmured, resting hands on her chest and giving us all a knowing look, not even bothering to finish her sentence.

‘It could be, yeah... I think I read something about that somewhere,’ replied the girl sitting on my right. ‘But we were quite far away, and none of them were wearing coats. I didn’t really notice anyone particularly busty either. Did you?’

I nodded silently in agreement. I’d read about those advances in tissue engineering too, admittedly with a touch of envy. But from what I could see, I hadn’t noticed anything unusual. The girls — who like us, were all between fourteen and eighteen — had mostly seemed short and petite. Athletic, maybe, but not exactly voluptuous, I confirmed.

‘But the problem is another.’ added another girl, a tall, skinny brunette who had been silent until now. ‘Did you notice their skirts?’

‘Their skirts? They looked normal to me, simple black pleated skirts, all the same.’

I thought about it for a moment and then confirmed. ‘But,’ I added, ‘when we arrived, we were all wearing pretty much the same uniforms. A few different details, maybe, but if you didn’t pay attention, no one would notice. Maybe in Japan, school uniforms are all the same, right?’

‘That’s not the point.’

‘I feel really stupid,’ I admitted, ‘but what were we supposed to notice?’

Evidently I wasn’t the only idiot because all the others remained silent, staring at our interlocutor, who looked at us in exasperation.

‘Where are your eyes? Didn’t you see how short they were? Now, I come from the countryside and I don’t know anything about London fashion, which may be much more daring than ours, but those aren’t called ‘skirts’ over here! At most, we can call them wide belts!’

Actually, now that I think about it, those black pleated skirts were really, really short. My school required knee-length skirts, but most of students, myself included, shortened them a little. Show me a girl who says she didn’t do that and I’ll show you a liar. But in fact, thigh-length skirts were unheard of, not in school or around town. Not at our age, when skirts like that are not allowed for a young lady. And some of the Japanese skirts were probably even shorter than that.

‘Maybe the Japanese have a different view of fashion.’

‘Or maybe of decorum’ Another one joked. ‘Surely our boys will appreciate it, don’t you think?’

‘Good for them, let them have fun. And in the end only a cheap can wear a so-short skirt."

‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’ I entered the discussion again. ‘Many of our classmates will probably think the same but I think they will be greatly disappointed. I don’t know anything about Japanese culture but from the way they got off the train and moved they all seemed very cold and composed. So, i doubt that there is any of them who instead of committing will spend these seven days flirting with a men. Unless it’s a strategy to distract other countries’ force…’

‘Frankly, I don't care what our men do and the same should be true for you too.’ Our brunette had regained control. ‘No, what worries me is the rest. If those uniforms are luxury clothes, get ready for the occasion, all right. In the end, all governments want to make a good impression here, we know that well.’

I nodded with conviction. In fact, when the results of the pre-selection came in, we had been summoned by an almost infinite number of public officers who, in addition to complimenting us, began to worry about a whole series of minutiae and formalities, while I was just asking for a bit of peace and quiet so I could study in peace. Three months absolutely without respite, believe me.

‘But if that’s not the case, if instead that’s the uniform they usually wear, then yes, I worry. Not about decorum, screw decorum. And then it would be their problem. But to be out in skirts like that and short socks in the cold, you have to be a really tough girl, at least physically. Now, I doubt Japan is a tropical island, right?’

No, there were no more tropical islands in the world, we all knew that. Before leaving the room I had looked at the thermometer, since I knew I had to go outside. 14 degrees Celsius. A typical summer temperature here in the Mediterranean, maybe even higher than average. In Edinburgh outside the dome in summer you rarely reached 10 degrees. Let alone winter.

Sure, I wouldn’t want to deal with a girl capable of going to school, maybe even passing outside the dome, in such a short skirt all year round. Never in my life.

And yet I would have to, I knew it all too well. Tomorrow and the day after to get used to the new places, rest and for check-ups.

And then on Monday we start. Six tests to take in seven days. Two physical, two academic and two social to decide which of us will have the privilege of studying political science at SISSA. We had set out with almost nine thousand candidates, all among the best students in our countries. They selected six hundred; and of these, only two hundred will actually see the university classrooms and will be able to study there for four years. Those who make it will have a secure future, in a land that is slowly thawing and that will need diplomats and politicians. The machines have imposed a change: they will support us only if they can train the new ruling class, to prevent humanity from falling back into the chaos and conflicts that led to the climate crisis over a century ago and that still continues to torment us today.

All governments want us, pamper us, exalt us. But as soon as one of us makes a false step, they will fall back into anonymity. Scotland, strong in its independence gained 16 years ago, wants to show London that it can shine even without her. And I, willingly or not, am one of the weapons in this conflict.

Fuck!