by Julian North
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“ArgoGood is controlled by the Aris-Putch family. There are… ill feelings between our families, you might say,” Alexander said.
“Yeah, your dad doing an Aaron Burr on the late Mr. Holland Aris-Putch didn’t help, did it?” quipped Nythan, sounding more like himself.
“Sir, given tonight’s terrible events, and the general confusion in the city, this evening would be an ideal opportunity to pay back old debts,” Gibbs said.
I had heard enough. “They’re giving us Kortilla—open up, Gibbs.”
The retainer looked at his employer, who hesitated. Alexander felt my glare and met it. He found no quarter there. My heart hammered two long beats before Alexander nodded at his servant. Gibbs spoke into his viser as he retreated from the room. I ran after him, beating him to the front door, which I flung open. I stood on Alexander’s porch, watching the two blazing headlights enter the grounds and drive toward me. Nythan joined me outside. Alexander appeared just as the car came to a halt.
A hard-faced man with square shoulders got out of the front passenger seat and proceeded to open the door immediately behind him. Jalen Aris-Putch stepped out. He wore an amethyst-colored robe that made me notice the violet tinge of his eyes for the first time. His shoulders were so narrow, his face so lean, I might have thought him frail—if he hadn’t whipped me on the track a few hours ago. Kortilla latched onto his extended hand as she exited the car. My next breath caught in my throat. She looked nearly as pale as Nythan. I ran to Kortilla, and she to me. I felt her trembling as we embraced. She clutched me harder than she had in years. I urged her inside with an arm around her shoulders. Alexander nodded warily at Jalen from the doorway as we passed inside, Nythan trailing in our wake.
I smothered Kortilla’s hand in my own as Nythan brought her two glasses, one of water, the other filled with Alexander’s bourbon. She went for the water.
“Where did they take you?” I asked.
Kortilla put the water down and lifted the alcohol to her lips. I’d never seen her drink hard liquor before. She didn’t flinch as she gulped. The glass knocked hard on the marble table as it came down. Her face was haggard and still and distant.
“Rikers. Underground somewhere. An interrogation room. Lots of lights. Machines.” She pulled up the sleeve of her white blouse. There was a red stain on her vein. “They gave me something. At least they started to.”
“Kortilla, I—I am so sorry, I—” Nythan stammered, sounding raw.
She shook her head, her eyes closed. When she opened them again, more of the girl I knew had returned. “You did all you could, Nythan. I’ve never seen the black boots treat a richie like that. You’d fit in just fine in the barrio with a mark like that on your face. You were quite brave—for a gringo.” She gave him the barest hint of a smile. Nythan puffed up like a peacock.
“What happened?” I asked as Alexander rejoined us. He stood apart from the rest of us, his expression unreadable.
“They asked me a lot of questions. Stupid ones. What I was doing there, for a start. They didn’t get the whole coming-out-to-see-your-friend-run thing. With a BC identification, I had to be a U-date or a terrorist. Since I told them I wasn’t the first, I had to be the other.” Kortilla took another drink of the hard stuff. “It seems they have lots of ideas about what to do with lady terrorists. They busted up my viser in front of me, to make it clear I was all alone. Then they started with their machines, their drugs.” Her voice cracked at the last.
Nythan’s knuckles clenched. The room was deathly quiet.
“They put a needle in my arm, and something started burning inside me. I swear, I thought I was done. Two seconds later, they stopped. It was like someone flipped their switch off. Craziest thing ever. The five bastardos who’d been on me like wolves to a carcass scurried out like they’d seen a ghost. I was hurried upstairs to a room with fancy couches, and the jack-As actually offered me a drink.” Kortilla shook her head. “About ten minutes later, that boy Jalen strides in looking like Biggy Zee when someone asks to pay on credit. The black boots nearly pissed themselves offering their apologies for the ‘misunderstanding.’”
“How did he know to bring you here?” Alexander asked, approaching us slowly.
“Jalen? He told me Manhattan was sealed off. Even he couldn’t get a permit to cross before morning. I guessed Daniela would’ve had the same trouble. Without a viser, this seemed a logical place to start—Dee usually finds what she’s looking for, and she’s not exactly popular in Manhattan. Not that she’s a socialite in BC either.”
I smiled at the jab. It was good to hear Kortilla coming back to me.
Alexander stepped closer to the table. His arms were crossed. “So, Jalen Aris-Putch decided to waltz into the Rikers Island detention facility to bail you out of a PA interrogation room? That must’ve cost him more than a small favor. His family isn’t exactly known for their benevolence. Why would he do that?”
Kortilla winked at him but said nothing. Back to her old self already.
“Kortilla did him a favor,” I explained. “She tried to save his mother after she got shot during the blackout. It was enough for her to get out a few last words.”
“Galena Aris-Putch is dead?” Alexander asked, his eyes as wide as I’d ever seen them.
“Unless she’s Lazarus, or their family medic is very underrated, I’d say so,” Nythan interjected. “Jalen is in charge of ArgoGood now. He doesn’t have your succession and family issues to worry about.”
Alexander nodded slowly, digesting the news.
“He really was great,” Kortilla said with increasing enthusiasm. The edges of Nythan’s lips dived for the floor. “No bodyguards, no weapons. That boy is so slender he looks like a heavy wind could tip him over. But damn, he’s got presencia. The room got colder than my bathroom floor in winter when he entered. Then he walks right up to me, offers me his hand, and says, ‘Can I offer you a ride home?’” Kortilla cackled. “It was almost worth getting my head rearranged by the Authority to have seen that.”
Nythan looked like he would puke. Alexander didn’t look much happier. “Very considerate of him,” Nythan managed.
“Who did this?” I asked. “Who wants Alexander dead, Jalen’s mother dead, the president dead?”
“The net is pointing fingers at California,” Nythan said.
“Would Cali really do that?” I asked, thinking about Dillion, the agent from California that I had killed. Not that he had left me much choice.
“Doubt it. Too aggressive,” Nythan said. “They’d be asking for a war they can’t win. And local revolutionary types—people like your brother—wouldn’t have the expertise to pull this off.”
“Jalen said it was the night of long knives, something like that,” said Kortilla.
Nythan nodded. “That’s a reference to the internal power struggles of the Nazi party in Germany—the night Hitler’s men eliminated the competing factions to consolidate power. The parallel may be apt. They went after the top dog and some other wealthy people—people with a large vote allocation.”
“I don’t control Rose-Hart,” Alexander said without rancor. “Control of the voting trust that holds the majority of the company’s shares has not been decided by the Trust Council. I don’t have a vote allocation, nor was my family a particularly vocal proponent of the perpetual president. Indeed, my father was his rival the past few years. So your theory doesn’t make sense, Nythan.”
“Maybe they just aren’t track fans?” Nythan answered. I fixed a death ray stare at him.
Kortilla stifled a yawn as the two boys bantered. One of my own followed. It hadn’t been an easy day. The City Championship already felt like a distant memory.
“Alexander, can we borrow a room till the city is unsealed?” I asked. “I think we’ve all had enough excitement for a night. I’ll let Kortilla ping her family on my viser, then let’s get some rest. Hopefully the subway is open tomorrow.”
Nythan op
ened his mouth as if to speak and then closed it again.
“I’ll have Gibbs arrange it.” Alexander flicked a few fingers, then stopped. He stared at his viser, his face frozen. When Alexander looked worried, there was something serious to worry about.
I went to stand beside him. “What’s wrong?”
“They bombed the medical center in the Hamptons Restricted Zone. Kristolan is dead.”
Chapter 6
Kristolan Foster-Rose-Hart’s funeral was the next day. Alexander said there was no point in waiting to organize a large ceremony. The world had already been told Kristolan had suffered irreparable injuries in the same fictitious plane crash that had supposedly claimed the life of Alexander’s father, the then chairman of the Orderist Party. It would do no one any good to have that story rehashed or re-examined.
Those circumstances necessitated that it was a small group that gathered to lay Kristolan’s ashes to rest at a seaside ceremony on Alexander’s estate in the Hamptons Restricted Zone. Besides Kortilla, Nythan, and myself, only the priest and a single distant aunt were present. Alexander introduced her as Roslyn Grant-Bell. She was a tall woman with reddish eyes beneath a mass of glass-like hair. She had helped raise Kristolan and had somehow showed up, even though Alexander had essentially kept the ceremony a secret. I had thought I might see Alexander’s mother at the funeral. He never spoke about her, except to acknowledge that he indeed had a mother and she was alive. I respected his privacy—I understood not wanting to discuss family tragedies. Still, I wondered what state she was in that prevented her from coming to see her only daughter laid to rest.
The priest’s remarks were a concise version of what I would’ve expected to hear about the death of someone as young, beautiful, and rich as Kristolan. As he spoke, his tone deep and respectful, I thought of the nearly joyous madness I had experienced when our minds had touched. She had wanted to make me her slave, but to dominate me, she had been forced to reveal her innermost thoughts. I understood better than anyone the thirst for control that had driven her to do the things she did. As the priest concluded his remarks, I realized that the tragedy was what Kristolan had become, not that her life was finally over.
Kristolan Foster-Rose-Hart’s remains were scattered into a stiff western breeze, the ashes flying out into the rolling Atlantic waters. As the others stared at the spectacle, I glanced back toward the restored estate house behind us, to the third floor, where Kristolan and I had done battle. The repairs had been masterfully done—the house looked exactly the same as it had been before the fire. For a moment, there was a figure in the window, watching. It was a man’s silhouette, tall with hair that might have been chrome. The window’s glare kept me from getting a clear view of his face. He seemed to notice my stare, then disappeared.
There were no other formalities. Ten minutes later, we were on board a v-copter headed to Manhattan. When we finally landed, Kortilla and I headed straight back to BC. Alexander offered to arrange a car; Nythan was willing to accompany us via any mode of transport. We opted to travel by subway by ourselves. We still wore the black clothes Alexander had procured for us to wear to his sister’s funeral.
Manhattan had been unsealed, but the Authority was out in force. The subway station was like a cockroach’s nest—black legs scurrying about everywhere. Eyes hidden behind dark face shields watched us board the train back home. We were one of only a dozen passengers inside the car.
“What is up with you and Alexander?” Kortilla asked as the car rumbled over time-battered tracks. “He was acting… strange.”
“It was a funeral. He helped me put his sister into that hospital in the first place. They used to be close.”
“I meant at the house. He seems to keep his distance from everyone, including you. That’s strange—even by richie boy standards.”
I released a long breath as I thought about it. “He hasn’t had an easy time of it.”
“Yeah, must be hard being rich all the time.”
My back stiffened. “He is rich. But his father is dead. Because of his sister. And now she’s gone too. He won’t even speak to me about his mom. His half-brother, Arik, is challenging his right to his father’s estate. And he seems to be losing the battle to control Rose-Hart to Arik as well. Not surprising since Arik’s mother just happens to be Virginia Timber-Night, the attorney general of the whole damn country. If he uses the controlColonies we stole from the Ziggurat as leverage in his fight for the company, that would mean Nythan loses access to them for his research and exposes him as the person who stole them to begin with.”
“You forgot something,” Kortilla said with a half grin. “I heard his girlfriend’s a Latina head case.”
I jammed my shoulder into her, even as blood rushed to my face. “I don’t know what I am to him. He closes himself off from the world most of the time.”
“That’s what the kettle said to the pot,” Kortilla replied. “You took off after him quick enough when you thought he was in trouble.”
“He… matters. He got us the money for the clinic. For meds to keep Mateo and others alive.”
“But not enough,” Kortilla said, glum. “We have to tell those waiting ‘no more’ every night.”
“He gets an allowance from that warden. That’s what it pays for. He’s even laid off house staff to get more for the barrio. Until the Trust Council rules, we must wait. He is doing all he can.”
Kortilla laid a hand on my shoulder. “I’ve got no quarrel with Alexander, Dee. He’s done more for BC than any other highborn in this world. And he saved my skin. He’s a good sort, hermana. Maybe you should cut him some slack.”
“What about Nythan?” I asked, eager to change the subject.
Kortilla shrugged. “Boy is brighter than the sun, that’s for sure. Comes up to BC every day, stares at analyzers and screens in the back room of our dingy secret clinic. Made friends with the barrio rats, learned frakkin’ Barriola in a couple of weeks. Tells me he’s saving the world. Keeps telling me he’s getting close to a cure. Some science stuff about cell colonies—you know better than me. I’d almost believe his fluff, if he didn’t act like a braggin’ street kid every other minute.”
“I suspect he doesn’t come to BC just to save the world. Your volunteering at the clinic might have something to do with it.”
Kortilla’s eyes grew wide in mock surprise. With a sly chuckle, she said, “Boys do their best work during the chase. I’m helping with important research, you might say.”
We were both smiling when the train pulled into Fordham Road station. The sentiment didn’t last.
There were people on the streets, but not many. Enforcement drones were parked at major intersections, their giant turrets rotating ominously as artificial eyes surveyed the people below. Finder beams flicked onto any vehicle that came too close. The people outside were those who had to be, or had no place else to go. Heavy clouds blanketed the sky, and a hard wind whipped around the forlorn buildings. The only lights were those on the enforcement drones. Kortilla and I made for her apartment, arms wrapped around our bodies for warmth. Two streets away from her home, a voice called from across the street.
“Daniela, vamos! Daniela!”
I stared at the madman calling my name as the nearest enforcement drone rotated one of its turret guns in his direction. I didn’t recognize him.
“Who is that?” I asked Kortilla.
She chuckled. “Just a fan, I guess.”
I didn’t get the joke, but I wasn’t about to hang out on a cold street under the colder stare of an Authority drone to find out. I nearly ran the rest of the way. Pele had guard duty when we arrived at Kortilla’s apartment, a red beret on his smirking face. For once he opened up right away.
“Welcome home, ladies,” Pele said as he held the door open for us.
“Doing a great job, Pele,” Kortilla said, her voice almost free of mockery as we walked past him, hurrying up the dark squatter-infested stairs of her building.
I heard the arg
uing before we reached her door. The voices were familiar. Kortilla gave me a meaningful look as she opened her front door and we stepped into a candlelit room. Intermingled voices fought for dominance in a confused argument of Spanish, Barriola, and English. I recognized Mateo among the room’s half-dozen occupants. His pallor appeared even worse in the flickering half-light than it did outdoors. He had lost weight in the two weeks since I had last seen him, as well as some hair. But there wasn’t anything wrong with his voice.
“…penned up like animals, no lights, no heat. They’re diverting all our power to Manhattan,” my brother declared, poking his finger at the air. Around him, jammed onto the Gonzaleses’ worn couch, were Kortilla’s brothers, Otega and Matias, along with Mateo’s henchman, Inky, whose ratish form was squeezed in at the end. Kross sat facing them in a turned around kitchen chair, his dark eyes sharp and dangerous, his arms hanging down, showing off his gang ink. Mr. Gonzales stood nearby, his thick body propped against a wall, listening with a deep frown on his face.
The room turned as one as we stepped inside. Mr. Gonzales lit up as he caught sight of his daughter. A ping of envy ran through me.
“Yo, Dee!” roared Otega, rising from his prime position on the sunken cushions to claim a fist pump from me even before greeting his sister. I obliged, but with bewilderment.
“Blazin’, chica,” echoed Inky.
I blinked several times.
“You think we didn’t watch you haulin’ against those richies?” Otega asked me. “Of course we did. Whole damn barrio saw it. Nice to see one of us beating one of them. At their own special rat race too.”
“It was great to see, sis,” Mateo said.
“Till the power cut out and the clangers rolled onto the street,” Inky added. “We all came over to watch you race, but we ended up stuck here smelling Otega’s feet.”
