State of Order (Age of Order Saga Book 2)

by Julian North

  State of Order

  Book 2 of the Age of Order Saga

  Julian North

  Contents

  Mailing List

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Afterword

  FATE OF ORDER

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  (c) 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Chapter 1

  I didn’t want the lead.

  The lights in John Masterman National Stadium dimmed to twilight as the track in front of me began to curve, only to explode a moment later with blinding intensity. When my vision returned, Jalen Aris-Putch was gone. He had been streaking ahead of me and the six other runners with long, effortless strides since we’d come off the starting line. Biting wind, springing hurdles, freezing air, periodic darkness, and whatever else the designers of the conditioned track could dream up hadn’t fazed him. He ran like a well-bred stallion, every footfall precise, his cadence perfect. If I could’ve seen his face, I knew it would’ve been devoid of sweat or any other sign of pressure. His quick, narrow eyes would’ve mocked me, as they had done on the starting line. Cold and precise—that was how Jalen had become the Lower Manhattan’s three-thousand-meter conditioned track champion. And I wasn’t exactly sure where he was.

  With three and a half laps to go in a seven-and-a-half-lap race, it was too early to pour on the speed—I had to keep a reserve for the finish. Behind me were some of the best runners in Manhattan, each of whom had placed first or second in their respective leagues to qualify for the City Championship. Tuck’s other runner in this event, Mona Lisa Reeves-Wyatt, was somewhere in the pack behind me, wishing me the worst. I heard the other runners’ footfalls, but the closest ones were too leaden to be Jalen. He’d allowed himself to drift back, at least a few meters. Why?

  Part of the answer was that the lead position was dangerous this early in the race. The track’s conditioned obstacles came at the leader first, and the other runners were invisible. It was also harder to maintain a constant pace with no one in front of you. I liked to hang back from the leader until the last lap or two. Jalen would know that from studying my prior races. I was sure that he’d planned to put me in front, leaving me with two bad choices: I could either ease my pace more than I wanted to or turn on the jets. The advantage of leading was that I had claimed the inside lane. I had the shortest track and a chance to build an insurmountable lead, if I dared.

  I dared. I lit a fire under my feet, accelerating just as the fifth lap began. Huffs and grunts echoed in my wake as I gained speed, the footfalls of the runners behind me becoming distant. No one expected me to make a move so early. I pressed harder, trying to make the yawning gap daunting enough that the others would panic themselves into a sprint. But on the next turn, simulated thunder crackled above me. Freezing pellets of rain fell from the artificial sky; a swirling wind whipped unpredictably from two directions, hard enough to disrupt my stride. The crowd shouted its appreciation at the unexpected turn of conditions. I slowed my pace as the track surface became less reliable. The crowd screamed louder. The runners behind me closed in again. My superior speed and endurance were of less use in these conditions. Hurdles sprouted in front of me, emerging from the ground like erupting geysers. I jumped the first, almost losing my footing as I landed on the slick ground. I mistimed my jump over the second hurdle, barely clearing its edge. Mona Lisa passed me on the right, using her size and strength to leap the obstacles with fearless ease. By the fifth hurdle, I was in fourth place, but none of the runners ahead of me was Jalen.

  The hail stopped as I turned into the sixth lap. The stadium sky turned a flashing crimson that reminded me of a fire alarm. The air and the ground pulsed heat. The track’s surface quickly firmed. Those undulating hurdles disappeared into the ground like frightened gophers. Apart from the temperature and the strange light, conditions were almost ideal. I seized the opportunity. My legs churned, my feet flashed, barely touching the ground as I drove forward. The stadium erupted with approval, although more for the spectacle than for any affection for me. I wasn’t a favorite; a girl from Bronx City in the Manhattan City Championship would never be beloved by a crowd of highborn.

  I surged past one runner outfitted in the garnet and yellow of Trinity Academy, then another wearing the amber stripes of Riverdale. I sensed my competitors’ outrage as they went from seeing victory to seeing the back of my navy Tuck uniform. They were highborn, of course. They thought themselves the elite of humanity, men and women to whom defeat was a mere concept. I was too focused on the race to enjoy their dismay. I turned into the seventh lap. Only Mona Lisa remained ahead of me, and we both knew that I was faster.

  She struggled against the inevitable. That was bred into her, I suppose, the way an antelope fights even when a lion holds it in its jaws. Mona Lisa sucked air, her face contorted in effort and agony. Her strides were desperate and heavy. I drew even with her. A frustrated grunt escaped from her lips. I could’ve passed her, but didn’t; I let her burn her precious energy trying to match my pace, thinking she could keep up with me. After twenty strides abreast, I winked at her, then pulled away with feigned nonchalance. I had no remorse. Mona Lisa wore the same uniform as me, but she hated me more than anyone else in this stadium.

  She let loose a mangled growl as I left her behind. “Nope…”

  The sound of Mona Lisa’s rage faded, along with her hope of a decent finish in the race. She’d pushed herself too much, too soon. But I’d gotten caught in the moment as well. I had set myself onto a pace I couldn’t maintain. Feeling safe in the lead, I eased off the sprint I’d used to dust Mona Lisa. That’s when Jalen made his move. His footfalls were so quiet, his breathing so shallow, I didn’t hear him coming at first. He moved with the deadly silence of a hawk hunting prey, picking up speed as he closed in. In a blink, he pulled even with me. I gritted my teeth and urged myself forward. He had momentum, though; his acceleration was exponential, as if he was running downhill. Jalen passed me, his backside mocking me as he edged into the inside lane. Half a lap to go. No damned way was he beating me.

  I reached for my cold place, the reservoir that is the essence of my life, my secret reserve of strength. I sucked at the power like a greedy babe. It chilled my blood. It banished my fatigue. It gave me strength. I surged like a storm. The distance between Jalen and I shrank. I pushed harder. My shoulder was almost even with his. We entered the last straightway. The finish line danced ahead—the three-thousand-meter championship title awaited whoever crossed first.

  I gritted my teeth. I pumped my arms. I shot down the track, focused on the finish. Colors flashed around me, thunder rumbled, alarms echoed. I just ran. So did Jalen. We were even, our feet pounding the g
round like synchronized drumbeats. If he was nearing his limit or panicked, he didn’t betray it. One leg, then the other, then repeat. He didn’t look at me. He didn’t back down. I pushed myself harder, faster. Twenty meters left. Ten meters. I grunted, willing my legs to pump quicker, but Jalen was a machine, unstoppable. We crossed the finish line. To everyone watching, it looked like we tied. But I knew he’d won even before the result was announced to the stadium, before the gigantic, three-dimensional, slow-motion replay projected above my head for all to enjoy. The richie jack-A had beaten me. I sucked in a painful breath and held it. My chest stung, my heart in particular. The riotous cheering of the crowd was the salt in my wound.

  I rejoined the Tuck team in a sulky daze, watching my feet rather than where I was headed. My legs had betrayed me. I had the cold power inside, the extra strength to draw upon, and it still hadn’t been enough to beat Jalen.

  “Second isn’t the end of the world,” Anise told me, slinging a cape-like towel over my shoulders. “It’s good enough to win us the City Championship.”

  Several others from the team offered me congratulations, although without much sincerity. My fellow runners either hated me because they thought I had been born less than them or knew me well enough to understand I couldn’t accept praise for losing. Even to Jalen Aris-Putch.

  “She’s right, Daniela,” said another voice, this one deep and resonant and familiar. “You’ve given us enough points to take the Championship. You volunteered for the three thousand conditioned to help the team—not because it’s your best event. It’s where we needed you.”

  I wiped my face with a towel. It got off the sweat, but not the scowl. “Alexander, you’re a noble guy. A great team captain. I appreciate your faith in my intentions, I really do. But you know why I ran that race.”

  Anise flashed a wry grin. “I warned you Jalen was good. He’s a second-generation highborn, like Alexander. Double sifted genes. I heard his mother built him a private training facility—in each of their houses, including the one in the city. ‘Born to be the best’—that’s the family motto.”

  My eyes narrowed. Was she trying to make it worse? “And I’m a nope who shouldn’t expect to win against her betters?”

  Anise rolled her eyes. “You’re the fifteen-hundred-meter city champion, my dear. A student at the finest school in the country, and a member of the Manhattan City Championship track team, with a ticket to Nationals in a month. Several million people on the net just watched you compete with the best that Manhattan has to offer. Be happy. Take a shower. Clean up. Award ceremony in thirty minutes.”

  She walked off. Alexander stayed. “You ran well.” I wanted to hear warmth, but he sounded stiff.

  I looked at him, at those deep sapphire eyes that led into depths I still didn’t understand. “But I did something wrong. And you’re going to tell me what it was, of course.”

  His brows shot up as if I’d stung him. I regretted my words. It had been two months since Alexander had helped save my life, and my friend Kortilla’s as well. For two months he’d tried to help my brother, Mateo. All at a huge cost to him—his sister was lying in an everlasting coma in a private medical center in the Hamptons because of what I’d done to her mind. I owed him a debt I could never repay. But that didn’t mean he didn’t drive me crazy.

  “Sorry,” I said. “This is the City Championship. You’re the team captain. I’m a runner. How can I get better?”

  He hesitated, his eyes searching mine. “I’m not quite sure—”

  “Out with it, Alexander. We’ve gotta hit the showers.”

  “You let your emotions take control. You made it personal with Mona Lisa. You need to have discipline at all times. Control your emotions. Like Jalen does. Like I do.”

  My face went blank. “I see. Thank you, captain.”

  I walked off, teeth clenched, my fists clutching the towel hard enough to make my knuckles white. I wasn’t ready for more lectures about how I should behave. I just wanted to be me—someone who won.

  I glanced around at the magnificent stadium. It was only half-full, but that still meant tens of thousands of people were watching. Its domed roof stretched upward like a private sky, a perfect void of white, arrogant in its simplicity. This was a place where my childhood idols had run. I had thought running here would feel different, or at least satisfying. Instead, it was another youthful foolishness dashed by reality.

  The crowd milled about during the break between the last race and the closing ceremony. I scanned the stands. Nythan was here somewhere. Kortilla too. The other runners climbed into the family boxes that lined the areas closest to the track to greet relatives and friends. The entire Reeve-Wyatt clan, half a dozen of them, each with a dark auburn mane, seemed to glare at me all at once. Not far from them, Jalen stood beside a woman of towering elegance, her chin stiff, her eyes the color of the sun’s fire. They exchanged deep head nods, the way highborn do, but didn’t embrace. Only Alexander was absent, already in the locker room. There was no one here for him. At least I had Kortilla.

  My friend elbowed her way into the restricted box area, trespassing on the expensive real estate of the highborn, much to their silent outrage. Kortilla wore no finery, but she outshone them all. Her hair was a blazing black, her skin a natural olive that couldn’t be simulated. Nythan, as pale as the dome above, wore an idiot’s grin beside her. The fool who had somehow won the lottery.

  “Don’t fret, hermana,” Kortilla told me as we embraced. “Nythan tells me you’ll get another shot at him at Nationals.”

  I managed half a grin, not at the thought of racing Jalen again, but for this person who knew what to say, who knew me better than I knew myself. My sister, in all the ways that mattered.

  “I enjoyed how you dusted Mona Lisa,” Nythan commented. “It’s a relief to see that several months of being teammates hasn’t made you dislike each other any less. You two remind me of Potter and Malfoy. You’re never going to be pals, no matter how long the story goes on.”

  Kortilla shook her head in resignation. “Kop ago di boletas,” she said in Barriola. The rough meaning in English: he bought the tickets.

  Nythan placed a hand over his heart and took an exaggerated step backward. “Eva does not love Wall-E…”

  “Learning Barriola, Nythan?” I asked. “I’m glad you’re using your time in Bronx City productively.”

  Nythan lifted his brows smugly.

  Kortilla stared at him. “This is wh—”

  An impossible tremor cut off her words—like an earthquake, but Manhattan didn’t get earthquakes. The stands swayed. A crack of thunder ripped through the stadium. Only it wasn’t thunder. The sound was too sharp, too dangerous. It was an explosion.

  Everything went black.

  Chapter 2

  Fifty thousand people gasped as darkness enveloped them. My spider-sense went mad. I recognized the sound of a projectile weapon firing. Instinctively, I yanked Kortilla to the ground.

  “Down, Nythan,” I ordered.

  He didn’t answer, but he did what he was told.

  There was a moment of complete darkness, the kind I feared as a child, deep and chilling. Then tiny holes of light appeared in the cloak of blackness as people flicked on their viser displays. My device was in the locker room, but Kortilla and Nythan had theirs. There was more shock than fear in the stadium: lights did not shut off in Manhattan. Certainly not during the city track championship in Masterman Stadium. The man next to me frowned into the glowing light of his viser display, dismayed at the presumed incompetence that inconvenienced him. These men and women of privilege couldn’t imagine any danger here, in their sanctuary, among their own. Wrong.

  “The stadium has backup energy storage,” Nythan said, his voice urgent. “Even if the city grid failed, the lights should only have flickered. Something is interfering with the emergency systems.”

  A sharp scream cut through the uneasy din. It was a shout of horror. Another cry followed, this one of alarm. Others hear
d it, felt its message. Many in the audience came belatedly to the same conclusion as Nythan. Fear descended upon the stadium like the artificial rain on the conditioned track. The crowd transformed into a panicked herd. People pushed, shoved, and squabbled as they stumbled against one another, searching for the exit. More shouts came, these of mundane anger and fear. I didn’t move. Our current position seemed safer than getting caught in a mad stampede.

  Nythan’s fingers flicked in the half-light, his brows scrunched in concentration.

  “The net is barely running. Some kind of data surge. This isn’t just local…”

  The lights clicked on with blinding suddenness. A woman’s three-dimensional, disembodied face appeared beneath a great dome, suspended over the twin tracks below. Her features evoked competency and calm, just as her designers intended, as only an artificially simulated image could.

  “All guests should remain calm and in their seats. A temporary power interruption has occurred. Back up systems are functioning to ensure your continued safety. All guests should remain calm.”

  The woman’s image rotated three hundred and sixty degrees as she spoke, her serene eyes scanning the crowd. Her tone was musical—authoritative and reassuring without being threatening. The shoving and shouting slowed, then stopped. People might even have followed the image’s advice, if not for the bloody body lying ten feet to my right.