by Julian North
“I’ve never heard of it. Not in Bronx City, at least.”
“The company Dad works for programs drones,” Alissa informed me. “A lot of them are used to provide security for big events, like the Allocators’ Ball.”
“You work for the Authority?” I croaked.
“No, no, RocketDyn, a private contractor. Like most contractors, we deliver a certain voting quota to the Orderist government and get a proportional amount of government-funded work in return. We do everything from heavy construction to network design. The division I work for does the software and related coding that runs various drones. Some do surveillance and security work, of course. But I’m just a coder.”
It sounded like he worked for the Authority, but I figured I’d said enough stupid things to people who were trying to be nice, so I kept my mouth shut. I concentrated on eating instead, which was what I should’ve been doing all along.
“This is amazing,” I said. “I’ve never tasted anything like it.” I thought of what people were eating back in BC. Nothing like this. I didn’t belong here.
“You can’t get Korean like this anymore. Reminds me of when I was growing up,” Harren told me.
“Why not?” I asked. “I thought Manhattan had everything.”
“Ah, it’s not like home though,” Harren told me. “They have the best Korean places there.”
“Dad grew up in Cali,” Alissa said. Harren winced.
“Why leave?” I asked, even though I knew he didn’t want me asking about it. Californians were traitors to the Orderists. Mateo talked about the place like it was paradise—one of the last democracies of one person, one vote, like the United States before the Orderists. The government net channels said it was a cesspool of chaos. I’d never met anyone who’d actually lived there.
Harren shook his head, slow and with regret. “Things fell apart, after the split.”
“Because of the embargo?”
Alissa’s parents exchanged looks. I was asking questions I shouldn’t. But I had the feeling I wasn’t going to get another chance at this topic.
Harren sighed. “Things were bad even before the embargo. It wasn’t the place I grew up in anymore,” he told me. Mateo wouldn’t like hearing that. “And Alissa needed things that we couldn’t get there.” He didn’t mention her hearing aids, but I suspected it was something like that. Although California supposedly had some of the best tech in the world, even now. My repulse spray was proof of that.
“And there’s nothing like Tuck there—no private schools allowed. You both have such tremendous opportunities here,” Sung said, smiling at Alissa, then me. “Your family must be so proud, Daniela.”
I looked around the table at this family, each one of them beautiful in their own way, well-fed, prosperous, and so naive. But being wealthy didn’t make them bad people. I decided to stop saying stupid things.
“Yeah, proud,” I agreed, and got back to the meat.
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
It was dark by the time dinner ended. The Steins offered to get me a car. Actually, they insisted on it. It was only after Alissa told them to back off that her mom relented. I had to practically dodge her dad to get out the door. No way I was showing up in BC in some chauffeured richie car. I’d be toast.
I walked through the streets of Manhattan towards the subway more worried about the groans of my overfilled stomach than being mugged. Indeed, the place was thick with Authority patrols suited in night-colored body armor and surveillance helmets. Drones buzzed in the sky—way more than during the day. What were they afraid of?
Richies still filled the streets, some walking and laughing, others eating and drinking at sidewalk cafés along Third Avenue. No one gave me a second glance, dressed in Tuck clothes, travel pass electronically embedded in my viser. Those dark-suited Authority police would probably rush to protect me if something happened, thinking I was one of the Manhattan elite.
A black sedan, bulky like a tank, with tinted windows and flashing blue lights, sped past. It was moving so fast that it unleashed a vortex of wind onto the sidewalk. There was no other traffic on the street. It must have been cleared for someone important.
Three other sedans, each identical to the lead vehicle except for the lack of lights, appeared in the distance, closing fast. Above them, a pair of wing-shaped drones kept pace. They were far larger than the surveillance models that patrolled Bronx City. I shivered, danger approached.
I spun around, intending to run down the street behind me. Three drones, shaped like fat spheres, turned the corner into my line of sight. They flew low, no higher than my chest. They had a quartet of undersized rotors for lift, the engines unusually quiet. Low and silent enough to evade aerial scanning.
I dove towards the café on my right, leaping over a sidewalk table where a pretty couple was enjoying their dinner. Glass shattered somewhere nearby as I hit concrete, the skin of my elbow tearing as I scraped the rough ground. A woman screamed. The ugly percussion of projectile fire erupted in reply.
“Get down,” I yelled at the pair beside me, even as I grabbed their table and flung it onto its side, creating a barrier between us and the street. I crouched behind it. The man, chiseled and stern, grabbed his companion by the arm and yanked her to the ground beside me.
Just in front of us, one of the spherical drones exploded into a brilliant cascade of fire. It resembled a fireworks display, with blazing particles flying in every direction. Several pieces struck the glass wall of the café, sending shards flying and unleashing pandemonium inside. People flooded out onto the street, yelling and screaming at each other and their visers in equal measure.
“Let’s go,” the chiseled man said to the platinum-haired woman with him. I met his eyes for a moment, then turned my attention back to the street.
The two remaining drones retreated backwards and upwards in different directions; one of the wing-shaped machines approached them, the muzzle of its gun flashing in the night. A second sphere detonated into a fountain of white light. The last drone moved farther from the approaching convoy of cars; the winged drone continued to pursue. Decoys, I realized, turning my attention back to the street.
A blast erupted beneath the first of the black vehicles. The force lifted the car off the ground by at least a foot before it came crashing down. Fire burst out from beneath the vehicle. The front tires exploded in a deafening bang and the sound of metal grating on asphalt echoed in my ears. The second car slammed into the rear bumper of the first, speed and proximity overwhelming its anti-collision system. Then the real attack began.
Three men appeared on the roof of the building across from me. They had the perfect vantage point. Black masks obscured their faces. Long tubes of metal rested upon each of their shoulders, poised like wide-mouthed serpents.
The first missile slammed into the winged drone that had remained sentinel over the convoy. The impact flipped the machine over, cracking its fuselage into two pieces. One fragment crashed into the building just north of me, the twisting hunk of metal striking the facade with enough force to shake the street. A hail of fabricated bricks and other debris rained onto the sidewalk. Blood appeared beside me, flowing from the body lying on the ground inside the otherwise empty café.
Another missile hit the second vehicle. Fire engulfed the car like a giant hand of judgment. The flames soared three stories into the air. The heat pulsed, finding me even behind my table. Yet when the smoke cleared the vehicle remained intact. Its roof had plunged inward, but its reinforced windows were holding.
As the third man aimed his weapon at the vehicle below, his head jerked violently to the side. Then his skull disappeared, shattering into a constellation of gore. The returning wing-drone raked the building’s roof with gunfire as it hurled itself back towards the true assault. The other two attackers disappeared. I thought I saw at least one of them take a hit.
Sirens shrieked toward me from every direction. Teams of dark, armored men clutching hulking force rifle
s dashed towards the attackers’ building from multiple directions. The air smelled of acrid smoke and lingering fear. I ran, intending to get as far away from this mess as possible. I got as far as the corner. A wall of black booted Authority officers stood in my way.
“That’s far enough, ma’am,” one told me. “This area has been sealed.”
I looked at the officer, dead-eyed behind his helmet, weapon in hand. “I just want to get home.”
“Once you’ve been verified,” he assured me, far more patient that he would’ve been if he knew I was from BC. “Your permit please.”
I sighed and held out my visered arm. It was going to be a long night.
A pock-marked Authority officer led me towards a black police van. It had wheels taller than my waist and a gun turret with a wicked-looking muzzle mounted on its roof. I’d seen vehicles like this in BC. People who went into them didn’t always come out.
The rear door swung open to reveal two narrow rows of metal benches where prisoners would sit facing each other. The officer who escorted me bid me to sit. There was no one else inside. There were manacles attached to the benches.
“I’d rather stand,” I told him, fighting to keep the quiver out of my voice.
The officer looked me over, wary. His eye lingered on the Tuck insignia over my breast. He glanced at his viser, then back at me. Uncertainty clouded his craggy features. I was both a miscreant and an elite.
“Suit yourself,” he said. “You live in Bronx City?”
“Yes.”
“Is your brother Mateo Machado?”
“Yes.”
“Someone will come to speak to you.”
He prodded me inside with a gentle push on my back, then went to close the door. My mouth went dry.
“I’m not a criminal. You had best leave that open. It’s bad enough you’re detaining me without cause.”
He shut the door.
Fluorescent lights illuminated the windowless interior. I had to bend over to avoid hitting the ceiling, but I preferred that to sitting in the torture seats. I wondered if this vehicle had been used to detain people I knew, if anyone I knew had died in here. Probably.
I flicked my viser, but its external communications were jammed, of course. The whole area would’ve been blacked out the instant after the attack. I didn’t know who I could ping anyway. This was the Authority.
An hour passed. The interior got hot and stuffy. I compensated with the climate controls of my Tuck uniform. When I got tired of standing, I sat on the metal floor. I wondered who was in the convoy. Someone rich if the Authority had closed the street and allowed armed drones into Manhattan to protect him. Even more important was who had carried out the attack. No one from BC. Not with drones and missiles. But this would send the Authority into a frenzy. I pictured the machines rolling down the streets of Manhattan’s four tributary cities even now. Precautionary measures, they would call it.
The rear door startled me when it reopened. I jerked to my feet, almost hitting my head on the low ceiling. The same ugly-faced officer stood in the entryway. Another black boot, older, with wrinkled eyes and four ruby-red bars on the shoulders of his midnight uniform, stood beside him. Behind them was Headmaster Havelock, dressed impeccably in his colonial-style three-piece suit and red bow tie.
“Please escort the lady out,” the older officer told his pock-marked subordinate. The black boot stepped into the vehicle and offered his gloved hand as if he were my escort to a ball. I didn’t take it.
“I can manage,” I said, pushing past him.
The night air had the sweet scent of liberation.
“Ms. Machado, I’m Captain Taylor, FCPA. I would like to extend the department’s apologies for detaining you this evening. I hope you understand that it’s been a terrible night.”
I looked at him, trying to put on the kind of face that Kris Foster-Rose-Hart would have if she had been locked in an Authority detention van for an hour.
“I’ve had a rather terrible night also, Captain,” I said. “Your men should conduct themselves more professionally.”
The captain’s face flashed annoyance, quickly banished. “Yes, well, you’re free to go now. We may have some routine follow-up questions.”
“Oh? What kind of routine questions?” I asked, hoping he could feel the ice of my words.
Captain Taylor’s face soured again. Havelock spoke into the gap. “Captain, Ms. Machado, and the entire school appreciates your quick action to rectify an unfortunate situation. I’m sure you and your men have done a tremendous job tonight, as you always do.”
The captain nodded. “We value our relationship with the community greatly, Headmaster. You can always count on that.”
“I trust there is no need for there to be a formal record of this incident, which I think we both agree should never have happened.”
“Ah, yes, of course,” the captain said with his eyes locked on his subordinate.
“It’s getting quite late, and tomorrow is a school day. If there is nothing else, I think Ms. Machado and I will take our leave now. Good night, gentlemen. I’m sure this affront to order will be dealt with using your customary efficiency.”
Havelock’s long, thin, fingers wrapped around my arm and guided me away from the van, the Authority officers, and the smoldering wreck of machines.
“How did you know I was in there?” I asked as soon as we were comfortable a distance from battle scene.
Havelock pulled me around the corner onto Eighty-Seventh Street. Huddled beneath the awning of a building’s service door stood Alissa, and her mother and father. Alissa grabbed me in a tight embrace. Her mother extended her arms around us both. Richies or not, it made me feel better.
“We heard the explosions right after you left,” Alissa said, releasing me. “I knew you had to have been caught up in it. It’s just so, so…you.”
I gave a half smile at that.
“The net was down, but your friend came to my home to let me know you might be in some trouble,” Havelock told me.
“And you got the Authority to release me, even though I’m from BC, even though my brother must be on their watch list or something?”
Havelock shrugged. “The Board, our alumni—they are important people. That means that I have influence with the Authority. And it’s not as if you had done anything wrong.” He pulled his lips into an expression that wasn’t quite a smile. “Remember, we look after each other at Tuck.”
“It seems so,” I replied, my voice just above a whisper. “Thank you, sir. And thank you Alissa, and you Ms. Ste…Sung, and Mr. Stein. I do appreciate it.”
“It is late, Ms. Machado, and you have had a rather interesting night,” Havelock said. “I suggest we all go home and get some sleep. Ms. Stein, I trust you’ll take it from here?” The headmaster tilted his head towards Alissa, locking his eyes with hers.
“I’ve got her, sir,” she assured him.
Havelock tipped his head at the Steins, then began a leisurely stroll down the street. I shook my head, not quite having absorbed all that had happened. Still, I knew that the headmaster had saved my rear. He and Alissa both. A debt now existed. I didn’t like that, but at least I was out of the van.
“Let’s get home,” Alissa said. “I’ve got everything you’ll need there.”
“Not necessary,” I declared. “I’m grateful, really, but I need to get back to BC. Aba will be worried. I’ll be fine. I can take care of myself, really.”
“All the trains are stopped, all bridges and tunnels into Manhattan are closed. There is no way out of the city, dear,” Sung told me. “Don’t worry, Daniela, we don’t bite. You can contact your family as soon as the net is back up. It won’t be much longer. The Authority can’t disrupt electronic traffic in Manhattan too long without incurring the wrath of some very powerful people.”
“What happened anyway?” I asked. “Who was in that car?”
Alissa looked at me in shock. “You don’t know?”
“How woul
d I?”
“It was Landrew Foster-Rose-Hart himself.”
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
They didn’t get him.
Whoever they were, they hadn’t accounted for the modifications to the car. According to net reports, a standard factory-produced armored vehicle of the make and model carrying Landrew should have been destroyed by the missile. But Landrew’s hadn’t. So everyone speculated that the car had been customized after delivery, perhaps with reinforced armor, perhaps with other defensive features. That part was being kept secret, as was the exact origins of the missiles used. But word had it that the projectiles used were twenty-year-old military Stingers. California had a substantial stockpile when it seceded from the union.
Landrew was supposedly recovering at an undisclosed location, but had issued a statement to declare that he would not be intimidated by terrorists or secessionists, and would be returning to his duties both at Rose-Hart Industries, and as the Orderist Party Chairman, shortly. Landrew’s stock photo flashed across multiple net feeds as his words were broadcast. He was a thin man, his hair gray like ash, his face chillingly lifeless despite its veneer of dignified beauty. He had neither Alexander’s stature nor Kris’s charisma. His image reeked of the severe. His transcribed words informed everyone that he had no doubt the perpetrators would be punished swiftly. The statement concluded: prosperity through order.
School buzzed with the excitement of calamity. I could sense it in the air as Alissa and I walked onto Eighty-Ninth Street, into the din of the swarming elite outside. Too many conversations swirled in the ether to make out the particulars of any single one, but I caught enough to confirm that the attempted assassination of Alexander and Kris’s father was the topic of all of them.
“Think they’ll be in school today?” Alissa asked me.
“Couldn’t begin to guess.”
I had showered in clear Manhattan water last night and wore one of Alissa’s freshly pressed uniforms, but the biting odor of explosives still lingered in my memory. I wondered if these kids would have been so anxious to discuss the attack if they’d been there. I preferred to forget it.
