by Julian North
“It sounds like you might as well. The Orderists fight among themselves now. Over the spoils of government. Over California, the embargo. Economic rationalism or simple self-interest. For example, Rose-Hart does defense work. Not surprisingly, they’re big advocates of a military solution. Their allies would prosper from conflict. The President is more patient.”
Alissa and Lara chose that moment to join us.
“You two look way too serious for a day like this,” Alissa declared.
We all took a moment to absorb the near-perfect azure of the sky, the delicate breeze, the juxtaposition of nature and the city. Sounds of laughter and satisfaction were thick in the air.
“Even you must admit it’s beautiful, Daniela,” Alissa said. “There’s no place else quite like this. Not London, not Shanghai.”
“I see why you think it’s beautiful,” I replied. “Because it’s yours.”
She didn’t answer me.
“This place is packed with highborn,” Lara said. “Let’s head to the back trails. Maybe our big rock.”
“Good idea,” Alissa said. “I’ve got snacks.”
Her pronouncement elicited several grunts of knowing laughter. I didn’t get it.
We headed south from the sprawling lawn, taking dirt paths into less manicured sections of the park. Birds that had no business living in proximity to masses of humanity danced among the trees. Squirrels scurried about, gathering nuts, looking cute. They would’ve been someone’s dinner back in BC. Something close to quiet surrounded us. We saw no one else as we walked deeper into the woods, although I knew we weren’t really alone. The real world lurked a mere stone’s throw away, beyond the thicket of strategically planted trees. Alissa led us off the paths entirely, dodging low branches across sloping ground, into areas that resembled the wilderness of my imagination. Something close to the forests that existed mostly in images now. I kept to the rear of the group, absorbing sights and sounds the rest ignored as ordinary. This place wasn’t ordinary, not for people like me.
After a couple of minutes of walking, we arrived at a great slab of stone jutting upwards from the ground like a beached ship. Veins of polluted crystal streaked through the drab gray of the rock. Great sycamores, rich with emerald-teethed leaves, encircled us, leaving a grand circular space directly above, like a private viewport to heaven.
“Let’s divvy up the booty,” Alissa announced, withdrawing a thin metal case from the bag slung at her shoulder. She clicked it open, revealing half a dozen thin, precisely rolled cylinders. A powerful odor, something akin to burnt syrup, wafted over to me.
“Are those cigarettes? Like on the net?” I asked.
“Updated, of course,” Alissa informed me. “It’s a tobacco-cannabis engineered hybrid. They’re safe. Buzz, but not fuzz.”
Everyone grabbed one, except me. Alissa offered the case to me. She had a flame lighter in her other hand. I shook my head.
“Bronx girl doesn’t touch benders?” Lara asked. “The air up there is worse for you than these things.”
My spine tingled. As if you would know, I thought, but I held back. I could’ve told her about the Z-Pop dealers who would do almost anything to get you to take that first dose. I could’ve told her about what I thought of richie ignorance. But I didn’t do any of those things. I needed allies.
“Not my thing,” I said.
The rest of them began to scale the rock, puffing as they climbed. I didn’t follow. My spider-sense held me back. There were eyes of menace on me. I peered into the woods, looking in every direction. Nothing but trees and leaves. But the feeling of ill remained, and I trusted my unnamed sense more than conventional sight.
“Hold up,” I called out to the group.
They ignored me, absorbed in their own hijinks. I scrambled up the rock-face after them. My head tingled, pinpricks of danger putting me on edge. Branches rustled in the thicket around us. Danger stalked us. I stopped, closed my eyes, and tried to imagine the threat. In an instant, I knew.
I dove forward. My shoulder slammed into Nythan, pushing him to the ground as a small drone buzzed through the airspace his head had occupied a split second earlier. The familiar’s rotor engine hissed with heat as it whizzed past. Pulsing sparks of white lightning flashed on its belly as it climbed into the sky. A sour burning smell clogged my nostrils. It smelled like the barrio, when stolen electricity contacted cheap, fabricated plastika.
“Son of a bitch,” Nythan exclaimed, his hands frantically patting his singed scalp.
Another familiar, this one presumably slaved to Nythan, dove at him like a hungry hawk, pulling up just out of arm’s reach above us. The lights along its circumference flashed a panicked shade of red as its turret rotated back and forth. A klaxon sounded, similar to an Authority siren.
“Where is it?” Nythan demanded, getting back to his feet, gazing up at the sky.
Lara alternated between looking at her viser and the azure above, her movement repetitive and manic. I didn’t fare much better. The tall, thick trees made our viewing angle near impossible.
“The operator is close,” Alissa proclaimed, scrambling down from the rock, towards a section of wood to our right. I followed her. But the immediate danger had passed. The message had been sent.
Nythan’s familiar turned off its alarm and flew towards the trees not far from me, its rotors kicking up dirt and leaves as it hovered at eye-level. The machine looked like a wicked, mutated Frisbee up close, its rotating eyes glowing with the malevolence of an Authority enforcement machine.
“Keep away from it,” Nythan shouted from the rock. “I’m going to send a directional EMP blast. I don’t need to know where it is for that. I’ll fry that thing’s brain.”
“Don’t—you’ll wipe everyone’s visers,” Alissa yelled back at him. “And you’ll get into trouble. The Authority is going to go nuts if they detect an EMP pulse.”
Nythan’s face bubbled with rage. His head still smoldered. I laughed at the sight. I couldn’t help it.
“It’s funny to you?” he snapped.
I shrugged, banishing the vestiges of my grin. “You look like one of your fancy cigarettes.”
“But he smells like burning dog poop,” Lara added.
Nythan’s scowl deepened. His hand remained poised above his viser, his eyes longing to send out the wrecking pulse.
“Score one for Drake,” Alissa commented, placing her hand over Nythan’s wrist. “But there will be another time to pay him back.”
Nythan let himself appear mollified as Alissa pulled his hand away. But a razor’s edge glinted in his irises. I knew the look well enough; his anger had cooled, not dissipated.
We returned to the rock, where the others scrounged for the remains of their precious cigarettes. Nythan sucked on his as if solace for some grave misfortune could be found at the end of the burning weed. Such were the problems of the rich.
“I thought familiars weren’t allowed to carry anything except stun weapons,” I ventured.
Lara rolled her eyes. Alissa answered me.
“The list of banned payloads is quite lengthy, but it’s just a list. It can’t include everything. Just major things.”
“And how do you explain an electro-magnetic pulse?” I asked Nythan.
“My familiar isn’t some off-the-shelf model like Drake and Lara have. It’s one of a kind. No dealer would dare sell something like that. I make my familiars myself.” I heard the pride again.
“You built an EMP yourself?”
Nythan took a last, satisfied drag, then tossed the smoldering butt away with grating nonchalance.
“Directional EMP—the wave knocks out what I point it at.”
“What happens if the Authority finds out?”
“I’ve taken measures,” he assured me. “If anyone but me tries to crack my baby open, they won’t find anything but melted alloy.”
“You belong in California.”
He flushed red but didn’t reply.
The topic
turned away from dangerous highborn pranks, eventually turning to unflattering discussions of teachers, then evolving into a rigorous analysis of the previous summer’s best parties. The banter flowed like a twisting river’s current. I said little but found myself relaxing. I could almost imagine having a similar conversation with Kortilla. I reminded myself this place was a means to an end. I shouldn’t be enjoying myself.
“Okay, kids, time for Daniela and me to depart for an evening of glamor,” Alissa announced. I glanced at my viser to see it was past six o’clock. I felt my back stiffen. I willed myself to take a deep breath as I stood up.
Alissa led us down. At the bottom of the rock, I turned to find Nythan’s eyes on me. He gave me a deep nod, as if acknowledging something that I should have known. I gave a curt wave before hurrying off to catch Alissa.
Alissa lived in a towering rectangle of concrete and glass two avenues east of Park Avenue. The trees were fewer and smaller on her street, but they still had them. Uniformed doormen minded the building’s entranceway with fastidious care. We took a viser-enabled elevator to the thirty-sixth floor, riding up with an old lady and her small, barking dog. It was the highest I’d ever been in my life. A wave of dizziness assaulted me as I stepped out of the elevator.
The door to Alissa’s apartment clicked open as we approached. I followed her inside, rubbing the clumsy viser on my arm.
“Mom, we’re home,” Alissa announced, slinging her bag on an iron trimmed entrance table to emphasize the point. I placed my backpack next to hers with less drama.
A woman of stature stepped gracefully into the alcove, her shining dark hair flowing as if there was a breeze in the apartment. Her legs were like stilts. She looked like a runner, with toned muscles and a lean, flat face. A pair of almond-shaped eyes that looked like the fabrication design mold for Alissa’s regarded me.
“You must be Daniela,” she said. “I’m Sung, Alissa’s mom.” She gave me a feathery hug, the way the gringos did it, kissing the air beside my right cheek before withdrawing.
“It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Stein,” I replied.
“Sung, please.”
I managed an uncertain smile for her, this richie who welcomed me with hugs and hadn’t surrendered her obviously foreign first name despite her place in Manhattan society.
“Why don’t you girls wash up? We’re going to eat in about fifteen minutes.”
Alissa flipped off her shoes at the doorway and bid me to do the same before leading me to her room, which was about twice the size of the space Mateo and I shared. But the starkest difference from my own bedroom was that Alissa kept her space scrupulously tidy, her bed made, and not a dirty sock or scrap of dirt to be found anywhere. The dark wood floor reflected my features back at me. I spied a similar chamber next door, arranged as an office space with a terminal and a fabrication machine.
“You can clean up in there,” Alissa told me, pointing at the door just outside her bedroom.
As she changed, I entered the bathroom, another pristine, angular space, adorned with gleaming ivory tiles and sleek metal. The faucets spit out cool crystal water, deliciously lacking the pungent odor of Bronx City’s recycled swill. It looked like you could drink it from the tap. I felt a pang of guilt as I splashed my face and rubbed my arms, the excess escaping down a silvery drain.
“I’d send the enforcement drones out for anyone who tried to take this away from me too,” I whispered.
“What’s that you’re saying?” Alissa called out as she stomped out of her room to check on me. “Want to change into something of mine? I’ve got some clothes that’ll adjust to fit you.”
“I’m good.”
“You’re almost as pale as Nythan,” Alissa grinned. “Relax. It’s just dinner–noodles, I believe. My parents are okay. They haven’t forgotten where they came from. That’s why I wanted you to meet them.”
I clenched my teeth. I didn’t like the sound of that. Alissa walked away. Not seeing any other choice, I followed her.
The Stein dining room was a magnificent space: a rectangular table of finely polished acacia wood that still showed its natural grain stretched through the center of the room. Six high-backed chairs of the same material were evenly spaced around the table. China, bone white with a gold trim, sat in front of four of the seats, sparkling expectantly. A magnificent turquoise vase sat on a smaller table nearby. An open kitchen, as much a cathedral as a place to cook, occupied the space adjacent to the dining room, with a whitewashed marble counter separating the areas. Amid the stainless metal appliances, Alissa’s mother spun about, as harried as a chicken in a slaughterhouse, smoke rising around her.
“Your mom cooks?” I realized too late that the surprise in my voice might not be appreciated. But Alissa just laughed.
“She tries. Once a week she sneaks out of work early to make us a Korean meal. And tonight’s the night. Lucky you.”
Sung noticed us, even while dashing around the kitchen. “Four minutes,” she declared before turning her attention back to the cacophony of pots, pans, fire, and smoke. The activity seemed too frantic to be concluded in the time she suggested. But whatever she was cooking smelled delicious. Rich and salty and exotic.
“Where’s Dad?” Alissa asked.
“Late,” her mom replied. “He’ll be here. He knows the rules. He’s still got a few minutes.”
“Everyone’s got to be at the table at seven sharp for Korean night,” Alissa explained. “Or face the consequences.”
“Which are?”
“The dishes!” Sung called to us. “And there are a lot of them. He’s got about three minutes left. Take your seats. We’ll be on time, even if he isn’t.”
Alissa placed herself in one of the high-back chairs, motioning me to the seat beside hers. Its weight surprised me. I hadn’t spent much time around solid wood furniture before.
“Sorry if it’s rude, but, well, don’t you have a housekeeper or a cook? I thought all…well, that is…I thought many families in Manhattan, you know…” I struggled to complete my sentence without giving offense.
“You figured everyone in Manhattan has armies of servants at their beck and call, oppressing them while paying slave wages, right?” Alissa asked, mocking rather than angry.
“Don’t they?”
“I’m not sure about everyone. I suppose the Foster-Rose-Harts have armies of servants, and I can’t speak to their compensation. We have Irena, who practically raised me. She doesn’t work on cooking days. And she’s more like family than a servant.”
“Where is she? Surely, she doesn’t live in Manhattan.”
“She lives in Queens City,” Alissa told me, a grin of fond memories on her face. “A nice apartment not far from the river. I used to love going there as a kid. Before…” Her smile faded.
“Before?”
Alissa looked uneasily at her mother, her face contorted as if she had been struck. “Before the red bus attack.”
“But wasn’t that staged by the Orderists to—” Alissa’s face drained of color, making her look like a bleached sheet, with dark, angry eyes. “Sorry, my brother…He’s into politics.”
Alissa glared at me. The air seemed to have been drained of oxygen.
Sung watched us from the kitchen, her eyes hovering on her daughter. “Finito!” she exclaimed, a bit louder than she should have. Still, it was a mercy to be pulled out of whatever pit I’d stumbled into.
“You’re late, Mom!” Alissa shot a last glare at me then turned to her mother. “It’s past seven. And Dad’s worse.”
“I got this, I got it,” Sung assured us, a forced smile on her face.
I had my doubts about her declaration of completion, but within moments, the chaotic din from the kitchen fell silent. Giant serving bowls made of perfect azure ceramic appeared before us on the table. Heaps of steam poured from the top of a massive collection of noodles, meat, vegetables, and rice. I’d never seen so much real food in one place in my life.
“It looks amazi
ng, Ms. Stein.”
“Japchae and bulgogi,” Alissa’s mom explained, pointing to the noodles and meat, in that order. “The vegetable is bok choy with soybean paste. It’s my mom’s recipe, from Korea.”
The door clicked open.
“Dad, you’re late,” Alissa proclaimed. “You’re doing the cleaning tonight.”
A handsome Caucasian man attired in the dark stretched waistcoat popular among the corporate elite stepped sheepishly into the dining room. His salt and pepper hair hung like a lopsided mop off the side of his head.
“Sorry everyone,” he declared. “I’ll be there in a minute. Please get started.”
He returned in just a few moments, sliding into the seat next to his wife and opposite Alissa.
“I’m Harren,” Alissa’s dad said, offering a hand across the table. “You must be Daniela. Alissa has told us a lot about you.”
I took his hand, but before I had a chance to reply, Alissa interrupted. “Why so late, Dad?”
Harren shifted in his seat. The edge of his mouth twitched. “Work’s busy. Big project.”
“Because of the Robin Hood meeting?” Alissa asked. To me she said, “The Allocators’ Ball is coming up. That’s when the biggest money managers in the country gather together in Manhattan. They throw themselves a fabulously expensive party, supposedly to raise money for the less fortunate. But mostly it’s to show off to each other.”
Sung began heaping food onto my plate. An intimidating mountain of steaming, slightly pink noodles, chunks of meat—real meat—and half a plate of the shining emerald bok choy.
“Robin Hood, like the fable?” I wondered, feeling a bit foolish.
“It’s what the allocators call their big charity,” Alissa explained. “It funds special schools, work programs, clinics, social services all around the country, using donated money from the corporate and financial community. Robin Hood—rob from the rich, give to the poor, get it? They named it decades ago, before votes were determined by tax payments, and allocators didn’t actually run much of the country. Back when they didn’t take themselves quite so seriously. But the name stuck.”
