by Julian North
AGE OF ORDER
By Julian North
© 2016 Julian North ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Table of Contents
Cover
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
AFTERWORD
For centuries we have been building a civilization of Gold and Steel! What has it given us? Peace? Understanding? Happiness?
Metropolis
CHAPTER
ONE
A gunshot pierced the night.
A hollow ring echoed in its wake. The sound was familiar: the bullet had struck the impenetrable armor of an enforcement drone. The noise declared that anyone within earshot should flee the tattered streets. Most of the denizens of the barrio heeded the warning. A few did not. I joined the tide of those that ran.
The machine rolled onto the avenue like a wolf among sheep. Flashing globes scrutinized the scene beneath the drone’s rotating turret, an artificial gaze seeing, recording, targeting. Caterpillar-tracked wheels dragged the metal monster’s alloy chassis across the cracked asphalt, its bulk brimming with spray guns, antennas, jammers and the devil knew what else.
“You are ordered to clear the streets and return to your homes,” commanded a reverberating voice. “The Five Cities Protection Authority has authorized the use of corrective force to restore calm to this area.”
Another machine appeared behind the first, a bitter twin of its companion. A dozen rays of light flickered from the monstrosities, forming a latticework of ominous crimson. A beam grazed my back. It caused a hint of heat on my spine, but a torrent of terror in my heart. The warning was clear: We know who you are, Daniela Machado. You are dead if we wish it.
I ran faster, cutting in front of the ragged shell of a man galloping beside me. He was a dweller of the barrio: hopeless eyes, gaunt arms, and a torn, sleeveless undershirt. I dashed across the street, putting his body in the path of the finder beam that had glued itself to my backside. I felt guilty about it. But people needed me. That was life in my part of the Five Cities.
“Puta,” he shouted when he realized what I’d done. He reached for my mane of ink-dark hair, its mass woven into a tight tail behind my head, but only his fingertips brushed against me. I was always fast—faster than anyone else on my school’s track team. Faster even than the boys. Long legs and a lean frame helped.
I dashed towards the dilapidated collection of storefronts hugging the fringes of the worn avenue, the rusted metal gates firmly closed, lean-to homes piled on their concrete roofs. Makeshift cardboard dwellings crowded the sidewalk. I ran for one of the lightless alleys between the buildings. Lurkers lived in those narrow corridors as surely as rats lived in the sewer, but I’d rather face them than the machines. I leaped towards the darkness.
A finder beam latched onto me as I sailed through the air, the comparative safety of the alley as tantalizingly close as candy in a shop window. I imagined the tight little dot on my leg, hot and hungry. I could almost touch the alley wall. But not quite. The hulking metal slave fired.
A correction pellet sliced through the fabricated leather of my sneaker and bit into my flesh. The force of the impact was enough to screw up my balance too. I landed on one foot instead of two, falling forward. Chewed-up concrete surged towards me. I sacrificed my right palm and left elbow to protect my head, and the viser strapped to my left forearm.
I scrambled to my feet and ran down the alley, my jaw clenched, but the pain wasn’t what was bothering me. I told myself that my shoe had blocked a lot of the pellet. That I probably hadn’t gotten hit with a full dose. That what was coming wouldn’t be that bad.
Liar.
Blood seeped from the gashes on my hands and arm, as I half-ran, half-stumbled through the narrow passage. Screams followed in my wake. Frail hands grabbed my ankles and legs. The fingers were weak, skeletal things, their owners little more than hollow shells of skin and bone. Still, they were dangerous in numbers.
I jumped like a hurdler whenever one of them came close, knowing that the pain in my foot would be nothing compared to what I would feel if I stumbled amid a nest of lurkers, inhuman and hungry. The air stank and the ground was slick from substances I didn't want to contemplate. I had run my share of track meets in horrid conditions, but nothing like this. I told myself this was still just a race. If I won, I got to stay alive.
My good foot slipped just as I reached the end of the miserable alley. I should have fallen, but somehow I didn’t. My blood went icy cold, the way it does at the end of my track meets when someone is pushing hard from behind, when I call upon that place within me for extra strength. Everything slowed down, and the world came into tight focus. My injured foot planted on dry, solid ground, enabling me to keep my balance. I twirled awkwardly, feeling more like an acrobat than a runner, but it worked. I made it through.
Riverdale Jungle greeted me in all its sordid glory. The shacks, tents, shipping containers and abandoned automobiles of the sprawling squatter colony extended from the remains of Ewen Park onto the ruined asphalt of Riverdale Avenue like a tumor, covering the streets where vehicles had once roamed. The whole place was shadows and shades of dark, except for the fires that burned in scorched metal garbage receptacles. The one nearest to me still had the words “New York City” visible on its exterior. Ancient history. People stood about, anxious and wary. They must have heard the shots and the screams, but the machines had not come here. Not yet.
I stole a quick glance at my viser, its flexible circuitry curled around my forearm like a large bracelet, the edge of its display extending into the lower part of my palm. Its fluorescent glow reassured me that my sacrificial fall had not been in vain—it still worked, although the signal was being jammed. I didn’t have anyone to ping anyway. I flicked a finger at the device, my movement instructing it to go completely dark.
I waded into the labyrinthine shanty town, willing myself to walk rather than run. I tried not to show my limp. The place stank of poverty and seethed with anger. I wouldn’t normally dare walk through here by myself, even with the repulse spray I had in my pocket. The calculating stares of predators followed me. My ankle felt like it was trying to escape the skin around it. Running on Sunday wasn’t going to be easy, but losing my undefeated racing record would hurt worse. If my fool of a brother had been around, I’d have kicked him in the place where he did most of his thinking. Him and the other
jack-A’s who’d brought the Authority’s metal enforcers here.
I reached the edge of the camp without being challenged. Relieved, I hurried across the narrow street just beyond its perimeter. I didn’t need to turn around to know that someone was following me. Call it my spider-sense. A few people ran down the avenue ahead, fleeing the enforcers. The footsteps behind me drew closer.
I took off at my best speed.
“Perra!” I heard in my wake, along with a few curses that made that one seem tame. English, Barriola, and Spanish. Excellent. I preferred my muggers to be of the polyglot variety.
They gave chase. A glimpse over my shoulder revealed two guys, around my age, dressed in dark hooded sweaters. They could have been students at my high school, although I doubted they had the tax receipts for school if they lived in the Jungle. Both ran hard, but they had no form. Definitely weren’t on a track team. Any other night I could’ve dusted them, but not tonight. I ducked around the corner onto a larger avenue. There were a few battered cars on the road, old gas models, groaning as they spewed filth into the air. A couple of people ran along the sidewalks. No one who was going to help me. Blood looked out for blood in Bronx City, and no one else.
I pushed myself hard down the avenue, its sidewalk battered but also long and clear. My foot had gone numb—early effects of the correction compound. The calm before the storm.
My pursuers were gaining on me. If I kept up this pace with no feeling in my foot, I was going to lose a lot more than my viser. I clutched the repulse spray in my front pocket, reassured by its cool, metal surface. The cylinder-shaped dispenser blended into whatever surface it touched. It was California tech—precious and illegal. My brother, Mateo, claimed that even the best Manhattan weapon scanners couldn’t detect it. He had missed my sixteenth birthday party, but had woken me late that night to give it to me. It was the best gift I had gotten.
A hand reached for my back. Fingers scraped my shirt but couldn’t get a hold. Decision made.
I spun around using my good leg as a pivot, spraying as I came about. I nailed them both, coating their faces in translucent liquid. The spray took only a second to work. Their hands flew to their faces, first in surprise, then in horror. I didn’t get to enjoy the moment. I’d let them get too close. The shorter of the two slammed into me. He whirled in agony even as our bodies came down in a twisted pretzel onto the pavement. My satisfaction at his pain didn’t make the fall hurt any less. He stank of sweat and sizzling skin and the streets. Shortie was only about five foot one—a full seven inches shorter than me—but he had a sturdier frame. Some distant corner of my mind added a scraped knee to my growing list of injuries. I scrambled to my feet as the dubious gentlemen from the Jungle squirmed. As they writhed on the ground, I stomped on Shortie’s knee to repay him for the tumble. His scream sounded like justice.
I limped towards home through mostly deserted streets. Sirens and screams from nearby provided the adrenaline I needed to keep going. Sweat dripped down my face; my throat burned. After a few more blocks, my vision began to blur. Perhaps from the pain, perhaps from the correction serum in my body. I wasn’t going to make it. If I collapsed outside, I wouldn’t be getting up again.
Time to visit a friend.
CHAPTER
TWO
I stumbled towards a low-rise tenement that resembled every other in the neighborhood: neglected, crumbling, depressing.
“’Jes, sista’?” came a mocking voice from behind the rusted gate pulled in front of the doorway. Pele’s ugly mug of a face appeared before me. He wore a shiny-looking red beret, probably in homage to some military type he had seen on the net sims. It looked ridiculous, particularly when matched with his ratty shirt and torn jeans.
“Just open up,” I said through gritted teeth.
“I’m not sure Kortilla can play right now. Enforcers out there, ya’ know?” A blackened front tooth made his grin even less charming than it would have been otherwise. He made a show of tapping his viser, shaking his head in mock sadness. “The net is down. Please come back later. Gracias.”
I rolled my eyes. I had played this idiotic game with him countless times. No one else in the building wanted guard duty in the evening. It was hard to believe this guy was going to graduate high school next year.
“Pele, now.” I hoped he caught the warning in my tone.
“What the magic word?” My fist couldn’t fit through the gate. Probably a good thing.
“I’m hit,” I told him, the admission more painful than my ankle.
“Corrected?” His grin vanished. The gate opened. I hurried in and Pele locked the portal behind me.
“Ya’ should’ve told me, little Dee.” He had the grace to look sheepish.
I ground my teeth. I didn’t want sympathy, particularly from the likes of Pele. I tried to walk across the cracked checkerboard plastika floor to the tattered stairwell without limping, but didn’t quite succeed.
“Daniela, wait!” He sounded almost desperate. I made the mistake of turning.
“I’ll buzz you in,” Pele proclaimed, theatrically pressing one of the rectangular buttons that had once opened an intercom channel to the upstairs apartments, but hadn’t worked in decades. That stupid black-toothed grin returned.
I shook my head and headed up the stairs. Even without lighting, I could usually navigate these steps with the same confidence I had in finding my way to the bathroom at night. But I didn’t usually feel like I’d been run over by a truck. I flicked a finger to switch my viser back on, hoping for some illumination. It didn’t work. I must’ve busted it when Shortie knocked me down. Losing my viser was worse than being punched in the gut. Now I truly was lost in the dark. I could just make out the faint light of a stair dweller’s tent on the first-floor landing. It was enough to get me up the first flight of steps. The old woman living inside, Granny Lupo we called her, peeked out at me as I passed, suspicion on her shrunken, toothless features.
I wasn’t sure how long it took me to climb all three flights, hugging the railing and trying not to provoke any of the territorial squatters living in the stairwell. I staggered onto the third floor landing like a sick pilgrim seeking relics.
Before I could knock on the drab olive door, a whirlwind of Latina energy bounded out to greet me. Boasting a sensuous mane of midnight curls, shining round eyes and enviable curves, Kortilla Gonzales looked as different from me as the sky from the earth: all flesh and flash. Her eyes sparkled with a life that not even the best Manhattan alterator could emulate. She grabbed me in an embrace that made it feel like it had been a year since we had last seen each other, rather than twelve hours. I squeezed her back harder than usual.
Kortilla pulled back to study my eyes, but kept her hand wrapped around mine. “What happened?”
“Apart from my brother and his friends bringing the goon squad home, getting hit with a correction pellet and breaking my viser? I’m rocking.” The words tasted pathetic.
“Come in, hermana.” She slung an arm around my waist, intending to support my weight.
“I got it,” I assured her. Kortilla pursed her lips, but withdrew her arm.
The Gonzales residence felt more like home than my actual home. It was three rooms, a worn couch, an old table, beds, and some rickety chairs, but that was plenty. Her parents made me imagine what it might have been like if mine were still alive. Her two surviving older brothers were enough like Mateo to give me heartburn. I might have cried more than Kortilla at her eldest brother Francis’s funeral, because I could not stop imagining Mateo in that coffin. Blood protects blood, and these people could have mine if they wanted it. I forced a smile as I entered. Elena Gonzales rose from the well-worn couch to greet me with a grin so warm it made me forget how badly I hurt. Kortilla’s thick-chested father raised a glass in a mock toast at my entrance, while her brothers shouted my name in greeting. For a moment, I felt safe, even as a mountain of woe teetered over me.
“Daniela! What has happened to you?” Ms. Gonzal
es asked while simultaneously planting two firm kisses on each of my cheeks. She smelled of too much perfume, but it had stopped bothering me years ago.
Kortilla gave her mother a firm, “Mamá” accompanied by a hard stare. Ms. Gonzales retreated with a concerned frown. I let Kortilla lead me away. As the only daughter, Kortilla enjoyed the privilege of her own room, window included. Her parents shared the other, while her brothers made do in the living room when they were around. Kortilla shut the door behind us.
“Sit,” she commanded, pointing at the bed. She disappeared outside, reappearing with a few basic first aid necessities that she applied to my superficial wounds. The real injuries were not so easily mended.
“Where’s Mateo?” Kortilla’s eyes squinted with concern.
“I’m not his keeper,” I said, glancing down at my busted viser.
“No, you’re his little sister, and that’s an even higher rank.” She studied my face for a moment. “He went to Manhattan.” It wasn’t a question.
I nodded, my eyes downcast. “Some pastor led a march to the bridge. Maybe a thousand people from a couple of the churches came out to protest. The usual gripes: power cuts, dirty ration water, whatever. Mateo said los richos couldn’t hear them. So he and a few dozen roving idiots—Los Corazones or whatever they call themselves—decided to ride some gas motorbikes into Manhattan. They must’ve run the toll gates.” I sucked in a deep breath. “Damn that jack-A. He and the rest think they can make the highborn give a crap. They think if they yell loud enough, someone will listen. As if raw fury can change the fact that people are hungry, or that we’re dying for no reason. And dying for every reason.”
Kortilla placed a hand on my shoe, tracing the outline of the fabricated leather where the correction pellet had entered. “They seem to have heard him.”
“Of course. You push someone, they push back. In the barrio or Manhattan. We just need to stay out of their way. Damn the Orderists, and damn the richies. I don’t want anything from them. We don’t need anything from them.”
