Age of Order

by Julian North

  “I’d be glad to make the team.” I didn’t quite understand why I kept talking to her. I should be getting ready to race.

  She placed a gentle hand on my shoulder, like a concerned parent. “Tuck is about merit, despite what you may have heard. If you should be on the team, you will be. Alexander will see to that. He always does what’s right. I won’t keep you any longer. I’ll be there rooting for you, though.”

  Kris glided away, her minions following in her wake.

  “You’ve been blessed by royalty,” Alissa told me, her voice so flat she might as well have been reciting Trig equations. “Now you know the Foster-Rose-Hart siblings. Beware.”

  I went downstairs to prepare.

  Attired in a smart navy running skin emblazoned with the roaring head of the Tuck tiger, I stepped out onto the track. The largest crowd I had ever run in front of milled about in the polished metal stands surrounding the gym’s glowing concentric ovals. There must have been four hundred people, including students from the elementary school and adults whom I assumed were part of the faculty. All for a tryout. And a chance to see the freak from across the river. I felt like a kidnapped gladiator entering an arena. A simulated sky of dazzling azure hovered above me, its fabrication so perfect I squinted at the artificial sun.

  Eyes filled with curiosity and judgment watched me go through my warm-ups. I wished I could blame the double helping of burgers for the queasiness in my stomach. My potential teammates clustered alongside a stocky man with shoulder length crow-colored hair and a hawkish nose. He wore an oversized golden whistle around his neck; the thing was bigger than my fist. Mr. Whistle sensed my attention and strode towards me, his eyes getting smaller as the distance between us closed. I went back to my warm-ups.

  He positioned himself an inch from my head as I bent my hands down to my toes. I heard an annoyed sigh as he waited for me. His squinty stare greeted me when I finished my stretch. His whistle was a finger’s length from my chest. I held my ground.

  “Ms. Machado, I’m Coach Nessmier, Director of Athletics here at Tuck. I’m also the upper-school track coach.”

  “Nice to meet you, Coach.”

  He frowned. “In the ten years I’ve been leading the track team, we’ve taken six Manhattan titles and four national championships. But we’ve never reopened tryouts during the school year. For anyone.”

  “Um…thanks. But it wasn’t my idea.”

  “Mine either,” he informed me. I wondered whose idea it was then. “I think you’ll find the competition in Manhattan is a little different from what you’re used to, as are the rules.”

  “I hope so,” I offered back.

  The edges of Nessmier’s lips looked like they had been weighed down by barbells.

  “We’ll run the fifteen hundred meters since that’s your primary event. We use two runners at that distance in meets. I already have my alternates. Which means you need to finish first or second to make the team.”

  “Understood,” I assured him, glancing back at the navy cluster behind him.

  “Do you?” he asked. “Everyone earns their place at Tuck. Alexander won the city championship in his events last year. We compete in the Manhattan Conditioned Track League here; we play by different rules, and at a higher level than elsewhere. That’s why thousands of people come to watch, even at the high school level. I hope this isn’t a waste of my time.”

  “Me too,” I told him.

  My Literature seatmate was doing a pogo-stick impression near the edge of the track. He caught my stare and gave me a dip of his head: the pack alpha acknowledging a challenge. Alexander the Great indeed.

  Coach Nessmier placed a hand on his oversized whistle. He fingered a few buttons on the back. The track lanes lit up a bright yellow, the starting line pulsed red. The gym walls disappeared. We now stood inside the Coliseum of ancient Rome. Arcades of empty seating soared around me, magnificent arches of polished stone framing the perimeter. A chorus of trumpets called out from beyond the faux stadium, shrilling with self-importance.

  “Better take your place,” the coach said to me. He waved to the crowd as he walked away, a little emperor with his whistle.

  The other seven runners had already lined up by the time I made my way over. I got the middle lane, with half the runners slightly ahead of me, the other half slightly behind. I felt my blood heating as I placed my foot on the line. A digital apparition of the number “1,500” appeared ahead of each of the runners.

  “Get that out of my face,” I told the omnipresent machine projecting holograms at me. The numbers vanished.

  “Later, little nope,” the mop-haired boy next to me said, his legs dauntingly long.

  A pistol shot rang out. I hurled myself forward. Charged with anger, I streaked at my best speed, cutting towards the inside lane. I found Alexander already there, right on the edge of the line, a turd in my favorite spot. He flew like shot through a gun, his rhythm perfect, his feet barely touching the ground. I let him lead, hovering on his right wing, further outside than I wanted. I moved in behind him for the turn, keeping my track no longer than his. Our feet pounded the ground, quick and steady. I ran the fastest first lap in my life; sweat poured down my cheeks. No other runner in BC could’ve kept this pace and finished a respectable race. But I didn’t need to look behind to know that six other runners were still clumped around Alexander and me.

  Damn, these kids could run.

  A girl, taller and longer-legged than I, crowded me on the inside as we took the first turn of the second lap. Her neck leaned forward like a giraffe’s, her strides resembled a gallop, her shoulders were as wide as Alexander’s. Behind me, thick breath, hot and hostile like a dragon’s, blew onto my shoulder. Giraffe matched my strides, keeping me from cutting to the inside lane.

  “Back to your dirty hole,” she hissed, not sounding winded at all.

  Runners surrounded me on three sides, our legs churning in near unison. Which left me behind Alexander. The only place for me to go was outside. Trying to win a race from outside the first lane was stupid. I tried anyway. As we reached the third lap, I hit the gas. A mistake.

  Alexander was ready.

  I moved right, then jammed on the speed, pushing with everything I had. He equaled me, not a bead of sweat on his face. I let up, just a bit, to cut inside him. He matched my maneuver, keeping me outside. My heart pounded in my chest. But it wasn’t because I was tired.

  I reached for the reservoir of strength inside me. Anger guided me there. I saw myself from above, running, surrounded by highborn, desperate. Ice flowed around me, through me. I drank it and used it. All my strength, no pain. Just go. My legs pumped, my feet moved like they had fire beneath them. But Alexander still hugged my left side. Dragon-breath had dropped back, but not too far. He had legs like tree trunks and good position in the inside lane. The turn approached. I would be running a longer track against the best runner I had ever faced if I stayed pinned outside. I reached within for even more. No one could sprint faster than me. Wrong.

  I took the turn in the third lane, Alexander like a devoted groom next to me. Dragon-breath pulled even with us using the shorter track inside. I knew a tie wouldn’t go my way.

  We went flat out down the straightaway, Alexander, Dragon-breath and me. No one else on the track had what we had. Alexander edged closer to the inside lane as the next turn approached. Beating Dragon-breath mattered to him also. I crept into the second lane.

  “You gonna lose, nope,” someone proclaimed from behind me. The highborn didn’t get irony.

  We took the next turn like a cluster of rockets, but I emerged behind the other two. The ice in my limbs began to thaw. Pain clawed at the edge of my perception. My feet danced on knives. The prospect of losing to these mutants ate at me. I remembered the sneering mummy-faced richie on Madison Avenue from yesterday, her pampered dog, her sneer. Anger was my nitro. I pushed harder. I was ice again. I could fly; a blizzard with legs. I pulled even, then ahead, just a nose. Third lap done. Th
ree hundred meters left.

  I felt the others behind me, like an inferno outside my locked door. They grew hotter behind me, but I had the lead now, and the inside. The finish line was a dancing rope of fluorescent violet ahead. There was nothing between me and another victory. Alexander the Not So Great.

  As I hit the last stretch of track, a gusting wind whipped at me as unexpectedly as lightning appearing in a clear sky. Sand, minute but sharp, stung my eyes. A hundred needles grazed my face, my arms, my legs. A tiny cry escaped my lips. My rhythm faltered, ever so slightly. Alexander and Dragon-breath were on me, even with me, ahead of me. My body numbed and I commanded my legs to fly forth. Too late. We hurled through the finish line, Alexander, Dragon-breath, then me.

  A wicked red image informing me of my third-place finish flashed in front of me. I sucked hard for air, my fingers locked behind my head. I was drenched. Fire smoldered beneath my feet, in my lungs. The crowd’s roar penetrated the fog around me. Boys and girls hooted, fists pumped the air. Chants broke out.

  “Tuck! Tuck! Tuck!”

  Near the finish line, Coach Nessmier fingered his golden whistle, a smile on the edges of his lips. I felt something foreign in my throat, pressure behind my eyes. Someone handed me a towel, which I snatched to my face, sinking my aching teeth into the terrycloth.

  When I was strong enough to look at the world again, I caught sight of a tall, slender man with dark skin slipping out of the gym. I realized then who had pushed Coach Nessmier to hold another round of tryouts. The door closed silently behind Headmaster Havelock.

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  I tried to walk to the locker room; I might have run. I don’t remember.

  I stripped off my clothes, rubbed the stink off my body as best as I could with a towel and jumped back into the clothes I had worn this morning. I grabbed my bag with the digiBook. No time to shower. Giraffe and the others would be here soon, and I intended to be gone before that.

  I shut my locker, resting my head against the cool metal for a guilty moment, my eyes squeezed shut. I remembered the last time I lost a race: I was five. Mateo had beaten me, on a clear morning in Central Park, with my mother watching. I had been so mad, I’d attacked him afterward, tiny arms flailing.

  “You’ve got strength enough inside you to never lose if you don’t want to,” my mom had whispered to me on the subway going home.

  I had found my cold place not long after that, but only after I’d lost her. Bad trade.

  Something wet dribbled down my cheek. I wiped it away, walking fast out of the locker room. I took the stairs two at time, maneuvering through the halls with my head down. A few students stared at me as I passed. I was only vaguely aware of where I was headed, but certain of where I wanted to be: outside this place.

  I got lost, but with a little help from the increasingly familiar portraits on the walls, managed to find my way to the exit. Security watched me walk out with eyes usually reserved for the janitorial staff. Alissa was waiting for me on the great steps. A brooding September sky cast a gloom over her face as she watched me descend. I didn’t stop to chat.

  “Daniela…wait,” she said as I blew past her, my head still focused on the ground. I noticed how nice the sidewalks were here; the surface some kind of high-traction polymer that resisted blemish. Alissa chased after me, jogging to match my pace. I was faster than her at least.

  “Come on,” Alissa urged. “You did fine.”

  I looked up from the ground at her, my eye screaming for her to leave me alone. She kept walking.

  “Damn it, don’t let them get you. Don’t let them win.” Alissa put her hand on my shoulder. She probably meant it as comfort. I turned on her the way I would’ve if someone had challenged me in the barrio, fist clenched, body tense for a fight.

  “They won—didn’t you see?” I near yelled the words.

  “I saw you push Alexander Foster-Rose-Hart to the limit. I saw you pass him on the final lap. No one has ever done that. I saw you dust Mona Lisa Reves-Wyatt, and the rest of the team, except Drake Pillis-Smith, and everyone knows he takes supplementation to try to keep up with Alexander. Damn girl, I saw you run your tail off. We all did.”

  “And you all just love that I lost,” I said. “I heard the crowd.”

  “People cheered because that’s what we do here. We support Tuck. Don’t be so sure everyone was chanting against you. I sure wasn’t.”

  I realized the spectators might not have seen the wind. Or the sand. Or they were used to it and thought it fair game. Coach had told me there were different rules. I just hadn’t been ready. Even though Alissa had tried to warn me. No excuses, I reminded myself.

  “Sure sounded like they were against me, the foreign barbarian. Right down to the Roman backdrop. Coach all but told me he wanted me to lose. And I didn’t disappoint.”

  “He’s a partisan jack-A, and everyone knows it. Even the highborn don’t respect him. But you need to understand that Alexander and his sister, Kris, they win at everything. People love to be a part of that…glow.”

  “But not you?”

  “What do you think?” she replied, her eyes locking onto mine.

  “I think you’re rich like the rest of them.”

  Alissa snorted. “I’m not at all like them. My parents work for a living—for a salary. I’m not saying we aren’t lucky. We are. I am. I’m at Tuck, after all. But those highborn kids,” she indicated towards the school. “Their parents are allocators. They’re officials. Their parents own companies with government service contracts from the perpetual President himself. Some of them are second-generation highborn, the elite of the elite.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t get the difference in rich. You all eat real meat, real fruit. You have heat, water, clothes, medicine, and no one knifes you on the street for your fancy viser.”

  “Fine, Daniela. Hate us, if that is all you can see. Play the martyr, if that’s all you can do,” Alissa declared. “But you have a chance here. You’re a fool not to take it.”

  Her stare lingered on me. Disappointment melted onto her face. She turned away.

  After she took a step, I muttered, “Soy una tonta.” I said it to her back, just loud enough that she might hear. I wasn’t sure if I wanted her to or not.

  Alissa whipped around, hints of a grin on her lips. “I’m a fool too. People like you and me, we know what we are. The highborn can’t imagine that they have flaws. That’s their weakness. That’s why we can beat them.” She whispered the last as if sharing a great secret.

  “Why do you want to beat them?”

  “You noticed these?” She indicated the tiny silver beads protruding from behind her ears. “Hearing aids. Bypasses my bum auditory nerve and feeds directly to my brain. They’re mostly organic material, so I don’t have to worry about setting off weapon detectors every time I walk through. And I can hear better than anyone at school.”

  I hoped I looked less surprised than I felt. “B-but, why? Manhattan docs…That Tuck center…they can grow whatever organs you need…You can pay…can’t you?”

  “My mom and dad weren’t born rich. They earned their jobs. Yup, it happens, Daniela. Meritocracy is not all crap. I’m not a lifer here. I got in for fifth grade, once my parents could afford it. Took the test: Aptitude Tier thirty-one. They could get me a Tuck education or get me new ears. They chose Tuck. I’m too old to have my head chopped open. And I wouldn’t let them do it even if they could.”

  “Why not?”

  She took a step towards me, eyes as serious as any I’d ever seen. “So I’ll never try to be like them, no matter where I get to in life.”

  I smiled. “It’s good to meet another fool.”

  I pinged Kortilla on my way back to BC. She met me at the station exit. She looked anxious, as if she was returning from her first day at school.

  The girlish grin on her face disappeared as soon as she saw me. “What happened?”

  I told her about it all. Except for Alissa. I wasn’t ready
to share about her yet.

  Kortilla threw her arm around my shoulders when I told her about the race. “You didn’t lose. They cheated,” she assured me, disbelief in her voice. I was glad I wasn’t the only one surprised that I’d been beaten.

  “No excuses.” I sounded like Aba.

  “Who gives a deuce? They don’t deserve you. You’re still getting a free ride. Mateo’s still going to get cured in their fancy hospital, right?”

  “He’s not answering my pings,” I said glancing in vain at my viser. “I red pinged that I needed to speak to him. When I tell him that he always finds a way to get back to me. But nothing yet.”

  “I know you worry, Dee. But he’ll be all right. He’s not a babe.”

  I grunted rather than agree. We headed for home.

  We crossed a busy intersection onto One Hundred and Eighty-Eighth Street, dodging filth-spewing diesel lift trucks and early model electrics that jockeyed in vain for position amid the street traffic. Repetitive slabs of concrete marred in their monotony by a few scattered windows lined both sides of the road. Men and women of all colors and creeds teemed around us on the crumbling sidewalk, their clothes shabby, their eyes wary. Even the adults were shorter than many of the boys at Tuck, their shoulders slumped forward rather than being drawn back. I never knew enough about the world of Manhattan to notice the difference before now.

  On our way, we came upon a girl, no more than a couple of years older than me, spinning aimlessly around the middle of the sidewalk, her mouth belching out “ring around the rosie” in a near-drunken slur. She wore a threadbare shirt of bright pink that extended down to her knees. Her bare feet were filthy, the skin of her face pulled to her cheekbones, her body gaunt though not yet starved. People gave her as wide a berth as the sidewalk allowed, but otherwise ignored her.

  “Z-Pop,” Kortilla muttered as we made our way around the girl.

  Like Kortilla, I’d been trained that the best way to deal with crazies was to ignore them while creating as much distance between you and them as possible. But this girl caught my eye, and I didn’t look away. Her body moved with an uncomfortable cadence. The pallor of her skin was a shade of rotten apricot, more like something out of a net cartoon than real-life. Scabs and rashes encrusted swaths of her limbs; she reminded me of a caterpillar forming its cocoon, her body forced into metamorphosis by the drug in her system. I stopped to study her. Kortilla put her hand on my shoulder to hurry me along. That was when I noticed it. The tawny creases on her lips, around her eyes: the Waste.