by Julian North
He offered me tea, which I accepted, mostly because I wanted more time to study him. To my surprise, he prepared everything himself; in short order, he brought over a steaming pot and a pair of tiny cups, brushstrokes visible on their exterior. The liquid was a richly toasted-amber. I’d never tasted anything quite like it.
Seeing my reaction Mr. Havelock commented, “It’s from Japan. Grown in real soil, an original strain of leaf that goes back a thousand years—not engineered. The cups were made by a fifth-generation craftsman from Kyoto, by hand. It was a gift from a former pupil, one of the rare ones I accepted.” He had a deeper, more calming, voice than his tall, lanky frame suggested. I suspected English was not his native language. Havelock called to mind an image of one of the native sympathizers who had helped the British administer their ancient empire, sans accent. His clothes certainly fit the picture. A traitor to his people, I concluded, albeit an urbane one.
He sat, sampled his drink, then spoke. “What do you think of our school?”
“An amazing place,” I admitted. But it wasn’t “our” anything; it was theirs: the highborn and those who wished they were born as such. I did not belong here. I did not want to belong here. “What you have here, it’s unimaginable where I come from.”
“And you think that quite unfair, I suppose, that so few enjoy so much privilege. And they are the ones who already have more than anyone else.”
“Well…y-yes,” I stammered. “You all talk about the laws of equality, merit. But kids who grow up learning in their own gas-fabrication labs can’t be fairly measured against kids who have to make do with whatever gas comes out their own asses.”
Havelock laughed at my crassness. “I knew I was right about you. We do need you here.”
My eyes narrowed. “And what am I doing here?”
“Please, indulge with me in a bit of history so that I may answer your question.” He sat back, thoughtful. “The Tuck School traces its history back almost two hundred years. It was founded by Anne Kelly Tuck in the year nineteen hundred and three, with the intent of utilizing the revolutionary teaching methods she saw being applied in the country known as Italy. The school has grown and evolved its teaching practices since then, of course, but our mission to produce men and women capable of achieving their maximum potential for the benefit of society remains the same. ‘Go Forth Bravely’ is our school motto.”
I scowled. Havelock was throwing tinder on the fire of resentment inside me. “The highborn go forth to grab as much for themselves as possible. Then they use giant machines to silence anyone who complains.”
He held up a hand, a gesture meant to urge patience. But I wanted to leave, not get a self-justifying lecture.
“I’m not highborn, Ms. Machado, in case you haven’t guessed. I was born in Rwanda, the son of two teachers. The genetic manipulation of fetuses was unknown at the time of my birth; we had no ‘highborn’ as you call them. I came to this country when it was still a whole nation, before California broke away. Before the Equality and Fairness Act. I aced the clunky school-admission test that Tuck used back then and got in. This place made me more than I ever could have been without it. Throughout its history, it has done that for people. And we have a place for you. But you need to have the courage to take that chance.”
“Why?” I asked, my voice almost a hiss. “I can’t pay. The equality laws don’t allow you to take people based on race, or even economic background. Why give me assistance? What do you get out of it?”
“Let us be clear that you are receiving an incentive package to entice you away from your existing position, something justified by our school’s current situation. Financial assistance based on need is, of course, illegal.” He looked at me to confirm that I understood his meaning. “We have a somewhat unique charter. You see, this place was established when the Five Cities were still New York City, and a good chunk of the very valuable property we occupy, amid the embassies of nations and mansions of allocators, once belonged to the government. It was sold to the school with the stipulation that we continue to serve as a place of learning for the City of New York, including accepting students from each of what were then the five boroughs of New York City. The deed upon which our property rights rely mandates that we have at least one student from Bronx City at all times. It’s a geographic requirement, not a racial one. And we don’t have anyone right now. Our lawyers have informed me that we are on quite solid ground in offering you this slot. Indeed, we place ourselves at risk if it remains vacant.”
“So I’m here to bail you out of a mess. If I’m here you keep all your super-expensive fancy buildings?”
“There’s a thousand people to fill that slot. Many would do it just for the travel pass, much less the education and opportunity that comes with it. You’re here because I see potential in you.” His eyes bulged outwards, “You’re here because I want you here.”
I thought about that magnificent track downstairs, four hundred meters of perfection. I thought about the classrooms, the fabrication labs. This place was a palace compared to my pathetic wreck of a school. I’d be far better positioned to get where I wanted to be if I accepted. But I knew I’d hate myself for it. The people that went to and supported this school treated every person I knew like dirt. They sent the enforcers to my home. These people said my mother’s life was worth nothing. Mateo’s life was just as useless to them. If the Waste had afflicted the rich people of Manhattan, the government would’ve done something about it. This school produced the captains of the highborn oppression machine. Besides, my spider-sense told me I still didn’t have the whole story.
“Not interested,” I declared, impressed with how certain I sounded.
Havelock’s brows rose, but he did not seem the least bit deterred.
“You work hard in school. Top grades, best in your class. You run like no one else in all of Bronx City. But those aren’t ends in themselves. You are working for something. Where do you hope to go next, young lady?”
I clenched my mouth shut.
He leaned closer, eyes intense, sincere. “I am not your enemy, Daniela. I am your ally. Let me help you.”
I chewed on my lip. “MU.”
“Ah, Manhattan University, formerly New York University. An interesting choice. Not Columbia. Not Harvard,” he observed, the fingertips of each hand joined together. He looked me over, thinking of something. Scheming. Traitors always schemed.
Without warning, he stood. He was at least half a foot taller than me. “I would like to show you something, if I might.”
“I’ve already had the tour.” I didn’t stand.
“Ms. Flint-Dayish is an accomplished tour guide, no doubt. But there is something I believe you will be interested in that is not on the tour.”
I still hesitated.
“It will be worth your time. Please.”
I crept out of my seat and followed him. Kortilla wasn’t in the waiting area when I exited, but she could take care of herself. Havelock set a brisk pace, navigating the twisting maze of corridors and haphazard stairways with ease. We banged across the ancient wood. He glanced back to make sure I followed, leading me downward till I was certain we were beneath the school again. But we did not go to any of the recreational facilities that Ms. Flint-Dayish had shown me.
“This is a little-used access tunnel,” Mr. Havelock told me as he led me into a poorly lit but still beautiful hallway, its ceiling adorned by angels carved into the stone facade. After we had walked a bit further, he added, “We’re beyond the main campus. I’m taking you to a facility that I think you’ll find of interest. More so than to any of our other students.”
My spider-sense wasn’t giving me any bad vibes despite the eerie journey. I fought back the urge to like the guy as he droned on about the old New York City water system. Eighteen reservoirs, dozens of great aqueducts. A new Rome. This tunnel had once been a part of it. Havelock had charisma. Like Mateo. I wanted to trust him.
He led me into a lift with a single
glowing electronic eye and no floor buttons. “Tuck Facility,” he told it, waving his viser. The machine moved swiftly, its doors snapping open at our destination before I had time to guess where he had taken me.
We stepped off the elevator into an immaculate chamber of scrubbed blankness and soothing lights. I’d never seen so much white. It was as if the rest of my life had been lived in mud. Soft classical music surrounded us. Teams of men and women dressed in ivory gowns worked behind translucent walls, monitoring screens, gazing at holograms of data. Giant machines of unknown purpose hummed soothingly. The air smelled like winter and disinfectant.
“Welcome to the Tuck Life Facility,” he told me, motioning around him.
I struggled to keep my breathing steady as I looked around the palace of science and technology, measuring it against the few dilapidated clinics in Bronx City: diamonds versus frozen piss, I decided. The workers took it all for granted, as did their pampered patients.
“This is a…a clinic?” I asked as the image of a human brain appeared on a nearby screen, so real I could touch it.
“The complex is a part of the Lenox Life Center. Like most Manhattan lifecare institutions, its services are available to paying members only, the total number of whom are capped. The waitlist for this facility is about seven years. Tuck has its own floor, exclusively for our students, faculty, and alumni. This center is endowed by many of the greatest allocators in the country. Its capabilities exceed anything at Manhattan University, I assure you.”
I looked at him with sharp eyes and tight lips. The bastard had guessed why I dreamed of getting into MU. Why I had worked my rear off to make sure I could get in, ever since I suspected Mateo was getting sick.
“How did you know?”
Havelock sighed, a breath burdened with memory. But he spoke analytically.
“MU is less prestigious than several other colleges in and around the Five Cities. It’s an odd choice for purely academic achievement. But it does have the best university-affiliated hospital. Basic deductive reasoning. I did earn my way into Tuck, Ms. Machado.”
“This place is available for my brother?” I asked, my voice shaking as I gazed around at the technology. Aba had saved every cent she earned so she could scrape together enough for a semester of tuition at MU. All for Mateo, so he could use my student health care membership when I got into school.
“Families may be included in the student membership for an additional fee,” Havelock assured me. “A portion of your financial incentive package could be allocated to cover that charge.” He extended a hand to me. “Can I congratulate you on accepting your offer to Tuck?”
Everything I had worked for was being offered to me. They just needed a bit of my soul. I let go of the breath I had been holding for almost four years, ever since I began to suspect that Mateo had the Waste. The burden drained out of me, leaving me deflated, but with a tiny spark of guilty elation. I took his hand.
“I’m in.”
“Excellent, excellent,” he told me, satisfied. Havelock motioned towards the elevator. “Let us return to the administration building. I’ll have Ms. Mark complete the arrangements. I trust you’ll handle the formalities with your grandmother?”
“I’ll take care of it,” I told him. For Mateo, she’d do anything.
Havelock hummed a tune as the lift brought us to the bowels of the facility. Classical. Something for a highborn. I studied him. He had gone to considerable lengths to get me here. He had done background investigative work on my family. Why go through so much trouble? What did he want from me? It seemed like too much just to fill an empty seat for his school.
As we left the lift and walked side-by-side down the subterranean corridor beneath Manhattan’s streets, it occurred to me that I had failed to ask the most obvious question of all. I shivered as I considered the oversight, knowing I wasn’t going to like the answer to my next question.
“What happened to the person who had the Bronx City slot before me?”
The humming stopped.
“She killed herself.”
CHAPTER
SEVEN
I found Kortilla in the hallway, bantering in Spanish with a Tuck student who looked like the “after” image of an alterator advertisement, silver locks and all. He flipped his viser signature to her before we left. She pretended not to notice.
“I thought they were the enemy?” I asked, my mouth open in mock shock.
Kortilla shrugged. “I’ve never met a highborn. I can’t complain about the face.”
“Improved symmetry of physical features as a result of genetic correction in the womb,” I said, reciting a sim I had seen offering the service to expectant mothers.
Kortilla rolled her eyes at me.
We walked back in silence. My stomach clenched as I thought about what I had done: I was abandoning my friend. I was joining the richies. On the subway, I confessed that I had accepted the offer to go to Tuck. I thought Kortilla would be mad at me, or at least disappointed. If so, she hid it well. She wrapped her arms around me.
“It’s better than MU,” I told her. “If anyone can stop the Waste, it’ll be there.”
Kortilla looked skeptical. “I hope so. But don’t do this for him. Do it for you.”
“He’s my brother. This is all for him.” I said it, but the words were hollow.
“Remember, they want something from you.”
I thought about the BC girl who had died, opening the way for me. I hadn’t seen anything on the net about it. I didn’t follow Manhattan news much, but this girl was from Bronx City. There would’ve been something. I tapped my viser, looking for information on the net. There was nothing.
“What you lookin’ for?” Kortilla asked as the train entered the tunnel beneath the Harlem River, leaving Manhattan behind.
I told her the little I knew about my predecessor.
“There’s always a catch with those bastardos.”
We got off the train and walked home, traversing forlorn streets, their cracked asphalt leaking ugly steam. The sour air rolled into my lungs, the taste lingering in my mouth. The people around us wore hard faces. There was not a familiar to be seen. Here, I stood among men and women worried about survival, not elegance. These were my people. I promised myself I would not forget that.
Aba was waiting for me at home. She listened to my news in stony silence. As I told her about Tuck, I found myself wishing she would share something more of herself with me. But today was not the day for an eleven-year silence to come to an abrupt end. It wasn’t until I got to the part about the Lenox Life Center that I was certain Aba understood a word I had said.
“Mateo must go there,” she said as if I didn’t already know that, as if I hadn’t just told her that I had agreed to put myself among those highborn snakes so my brother could use their medical facility.
“I don’t even know where he is,” I admitted. “I’ll red ping him.”
“Go succeed,” she urged, though it sounded more like a rebuke than a command.
I pushed the school consent from my viser to Aba’s ancient handheld. I watched as she gave the obligatory thumbprint authorization. My wrist vibrated as a flood of digital contracts became effective. Just like that, I was a student at the most prestigious high school in the world, an ugly duckling among highborn swans. I should have felt proud, or at least scared. Instead, I felt dirty.
I flopped onto my bed and tried to contact Mateo, without any success. Then I searched the public net again, digging for something that hinted at a death at Tuck. Nothing. That scared me. Not even the highborn could control the net, not all of it. They might own the major news feeds, the data aggregators, the viser companies, but there was always some trace on the net. I suspected a crawler had been unleashed to cleanse any lingering trace that couldn’t be suppressed directly. It must’ve been a good one, lots of capacity behind it, which meant lots of money. Mateo would know better than me, though.
I switched tactics. I looked for dead girls in
Bronx City in the past three weeks. I found a lot. I narrowed the search to those between fifteen and eighteen years old. The number remained daunting. People stepped up to the front line in the gangs around that age, and casualty rates were high. Most didn’t have funerals. I eliminated those. A girl who went to Tuck would’ve had a family behind her, someone who cared. Someone who would mourn her. That made it easier. Marie-Ann Rebello was her name, I was almost certain. She had been accepted into the Five Cities Gifted and Talented Program before it had been canceled. After that, there was no record of her in any of the Bronx City schools. Then a funeral. I guessed a crawler must’ve erased the rest, anything with her name and Tuck’s, but the pieces fit too well to be anything else. A bit more digging revealed she had a mother and father, both taxpayers. People who cared enough to pay the government for services and the right to vote. That had to be them. It was close to midnight. I sent them a ping with my verified identity and a short request to speak to them about their daughter.
I shut my eyes. Tomorrow I would face the highborn.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
The scene around the Tuck School reminded me of an anthill consisting entirely of the best-fed ants in the world. Students ranging from five to eighteen years old streamed towards the opposing entrances of the illustrious school—my school—in a navy and white parade of controlled chaos. The kids compensated for the monotony of their clothing with a dazzling array of hair colors: gold, platinum, silver, copper, chrome, and several I couldn’t guess. You could’ve mined their skulls for precious metals, but not much else. Younger students clustered on the south side of the street, upper-school students stayed on the north side, while hulking vehicles, their exteriors colored in hostile shades of black, human drivers at the wheel, traversed the street to deposit their pampered cargo at Tuck’s doorstep. Familiars ruled the skies like air cover for an invasion.
I turned onto the street atop humble feet, the only school-aged person not attired in a standard uniform, although I had chosen dark colors. Not that I expected to blend in. In addition to not being in uniform, I lacked the obligatory mechanized crown floating above my head. There was also the matter of my skin color. And I walked alone. Kortilla’s absence ached inside me as I forced myself to proceed at a deliberate pace down that surreal street; I missed her strength.
