State of Order (Age of Order Saga Book 2)

by Julian North

  My blood surged hot. “A dress?”

  “It belonged to my older sister—but she’s studying in Asia right now. You’ll need to submit to a quick measurement before dinner, and it’ll be ready for you by morning.”

  My voice rose. “Is that all you highborn think about? Clothes? Homes?”

  “You asked for my help. I’m giving it to you. You’re going to be in the VIP area of a massive state funeral tomorrow, Daniela. The elite of this country will be there. The people who want power will be there. You want to understand the game? Keep your eyes open. Talk to the powerful. Use your head. Use that pretty face. Maybe you’ll answer your own question. Maybe you’ll find a way to help Alexander too.”

  “Alexander? What do you mean?”

  “You think it’s a coincidence that his sister was killed the same night someone tried to kill him? And it may be worse than that. You’ll see tomorrow.” She climbed off the bed. “I need to change for dinner. I told you, my family doesn’t take sides in politics—we provide services, then congratulate the winner. I can’t go against my family. But you aren’t a Titan-Wind, now are you?”

  “Dammit, Anise, what the hell are you talking about?”

  “You can’t tell someone how to run, right? It can’t be explained. You need to see it. And tomorrow, you will, I promise.”

  Chapter 10

  The smell of freshly baked bread woke me.

  I rolled toward one side of the enormous mattress until my feet fell onto the plush carpet. I pulled on my viser, but links to Bronx City were still down. I swore a few choice words as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. The wall screens came on of their own volition, nine displays within the larger screen, all of them showing various locations around Manhattan. People were gathering on the streets already, awaiting the arrival of the president’s funeral procession. A steady stream of v-copters landed at terminals and atop private buildings. Authority vehicles flashed across every screen.

  “Off,” I commanded. The displays ignored me.

  A baggy outfit of emerald and white silk had been laid out for me at the base of the bed. Breakfast wear. At least the food smelled as if it was going to be worth it. I got dressed in luxury, hating myself for liking the way the outfit felt.

  Anise’s parents hadn’t been at dinner the previous night. She had said her father had been working late and her mother received a last-minute invitation from some important socialite I’d never heard of, but I assumed the real reason for their absence was that I wasn’t worthy of their attention. Based on that experience, I wasn’t really expecting anyone besides Anise and some of the family staff to be waiting for me in the dining room. But her father was there.

  I stumbled into the room and froze. He sat alone at the long, bone-colored table, morning sunlight flooding in through the oversized windows beside him. A cup of black coffee was in front of him. His face was hidden behind a newspaper—a relic of actual ink and paper. I considered going back to my room, but he lowered the newspaper before I had the chance. I wasn’t prepared for the face that greeted me: it was from my visions, one of the faces that had been haunting me since the night I’d faced Drake and Kristolan.

  The man at the table was handsome by anyone’s standards, with high cheekbones and a flat-cut chin. His eyes were dark but still radiant. The barest hint of silver adorned the tips of his thick mane of snow-white hair. Those black-polished eyes regarded me as my mind reeled.

  “You’re Daniela, I expect?” the man asked, his voice a pleasant bass.

  I couldn’t breathe, much less talk. I had never laid eyes on this person before this moment. Yet his image was seared into my mind. And I knew him, or at least knew about him. He called himself Jeffery Titan-Wind, but I knew that the name was fiction. Jeffery was the son of Keller Dean, an industrial equipment salesman. His wife was Priscilla; his girlfriend was a petite French girl named Margarite. He had a taste for nineteenth-century cognac. He was a merchant above all else. Whose memories were these?

  “Are you feeling okay?” Jeffery was standing.

  I shook myself out of my daze. “Fine, sorry. Something I forgot about in school.” I forced myself to look at him, at a face I remembered, even though I had never seen him before. “Yes, I’m Daniela Machado. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Titan-Wind.”

  He smiled a soothing smile. “Jeffery, please. My wife and I are always grateful for the pleasure to host one of Anise’s friends. I’m sorry I missed dinner last night. My work gets intense when I least expect it, I’m afraid. We’re working on a very exciting project involving deep ocean mapping. I just couldn’t get away.”

  He rubs his chin when he lies, I somehow knew. He was doing it now. The viser on his wrist was a glittery gold, more jewel than device. He noticed my gaze.

  “It’s a prismPulse. The newest in viser tech. Never need to take it off. It learns—knows what I want before I do.” He stared at it with satisfied eyes before returning his attention to me. “Please, sit, and let Carmilla bring you some breakfast. It will be a long day, I expect. But we must pay our respects, mustn’t we?”

  “It seems so.” I took a seat across from him. “Is that newspaper made from real paper?”

  He folded the thin pages and placed them in a pile next to him on the table. “The pages are fabricated, but they look and feel genuine. You need a premium organic fabricator to receive them. The news is updated at the time of fabrication, so it’s almost as current as what you get on a viser.” He handed me a section of the paper. I took it hesitantly. “What do you think?”

  “It seems difficult to find the news that interests you. Everything is just there on the pages.”

  Jeffery frowned. “You’re too young to remember these. There is something special about having physical paper in your hands when you read, I think. I believe many people of culture will agree, once they try it. I have an interest in the company that makes these, you know.”

  “Who is the man in this picture?” I asked.

  He raised a brow in surprise. “That is Vander Hoven, of course, the former vice president, now the President of the United States following President Ryan-Hayes’s death. At least until next year’s election.”

  I stared at the picture of a tired, bald man, his face fixed in a tense smile. “What do you mean?”

  Jeffery’s mouth spread into a knowing line. “Our new president isn’t highborn, my dear. He is a remnant of the past—from a time of party politics, when emotional manipulation of the masses was necessary. The late president kept Hoven around out of a misguided sense of loyalty—Hoven was among the first of the Orderists, and he was critical in keeping Ryan-Hayes on top when Virginia Timber-Night challenged him after his first election. But that’s history. I’m friendly with many of the great allocators personally, and they won’t support him. I doubt the corps will either.” Jeffery leaned back in his expensive wood chair, surveying his beautiful dining room like a king gazing at his domain, his golden viser like a scepter in his hand.

  “So only a highborn can be president now?” It came out with more bitterness than I intended.

  “I mean no offense to you, of course. I am a business man, so I personally don’t care about how a person is born, just what they can do. But politics is different, you must understand. I doubt a nope… that is, any non-highborn, could win the next election, but Hoven certainly won’t. Arthus Ryan-Hayes could get away with opposing sensible policies because of his standing in the party. But Hoven can’t.”

  I stifled the disdainful smirk that wanted to fill my face as I listened to Jeffery’s self-serving drivel. He was describing a bunch of rich people fighting over a few extra coins, a little extra power. The occupant of the White House didn’t matter to the people in BC. But right now, highborn politics was important to me—if I was going to find out what was going on in BC. Before I could ask Jeffery to explain further, a liveried servant, her features Latina, placed a plate of scrambled eggs and sizzling bacon in front of me along with a basket full of st
ill-warm rolls. My mouth watered in spite of the nausea in my stomach.

  “Gracias,” I said. The serving woman glanced nervously at Jeffery, then nodded politely at me before scurrying away.

  Mr. Titan-Wind’s eyes lingered on the door behind me before he forced a Z-pop pusher’s smile onto his face. “We get our eggs from the same farm as the Iron-Starks, you know. I have a share in the company. It’s all free-range, organically-cleansed pastures. The best. You must try them.”

  I had nothing polite to add to his declaration, so I did what he asked. Anise and a young man with chestnut-colored hair and fine symmetrical facial features entered before the silence became too awkward. Anise wore the same silken breakfast attire as me, but her companion was clad in a black mourning suit that stuck to his slim, muscular body.

  “Daniela, you’re an early riser,” Anise said. “This is my brother, Michael.”

  Anise’s elder sibling gave me a highborn nod. I returned a less polite gesture, mostly because I was sitting and my mouth was stuffed with scrambled eggs. Anise giggled. Her brother smiled, amused rather than insulted.

  “I told you—she’s one of a kind,” Anise proclaimed as she took a seat beside me. Michael claimed the chair next to his father. More food appeared along with juice and coffee.

  “How is the traffic?” Jeffery asked his son.

  “No unauthorized vehicles on the street today. I walked across the park to get here.”

  Anise’s father smiled. “We’ve got a special permit. We won’t have a problem getting downtown to the Government District. And I got us passes for the donors’ wake, at Atwood Manor, right next to the White House. Gimmer Red-Bore himself arranged it. He’s pushing for exclusive use of the Gaia for thirty days, and he probably thought this might sway me.” Jeffery’s eyes passed over the assembled diners, searching for proof they were suitably impressed by his declaration. I was baffled, of course. I didn’t know any of those names. I must have been obvious about it.

  “The Gaia’s our family’s newest submersible,” Michael told me.

  “Nothing else like it in water. Hugs the deepest ocean floor—can find any mineral, any hydrate concentration,” Jeffery assured me. “Ah, apologies, Daniela, I didn’t know you’d be joining us today. It’s too late for me to include you in the invitation to Atwood Manor.” He didn’t sound sorry. Instead, he reminded me of a teenager bragging about being on some club’s VIP list.

  “Daniela and I will be at the Tuck reception, Dad. Senator Palpatine is hosting us at the Senate chambers. He’s an alumnus of Tuck, just like the late president. Headmaster Frost-Bell arranged for the upper school to attend.”

  A frown flashed on Jeffery’s face, quickly concealed. “Yes, yes. Very good. Anise, please pass on my regards to the senator and his wife. And to Alexander Foster-Rose-Hart as well. It has been so long since we have had the pleasure of his company. Daniela, I understand you and Alexander are close these days. You both must join us for dinner. Indeed, I insist.”

  My eyes grew wide. Anise discussed my relationships with her father? “I … that is, Alexander and I…”

  Michael placed a hand on his father’s shoulder. “I’ll go check on Mom. We really do need to get going.”

  Anise tugged gently on my arm. “Your dress is ready. Let’s go change, Daniela.” In a whisper, she added, “Remember what I told you yesterday. Keep your eyes open.”

  The body of the late President Arthus Ryan-Hayes lay in state at Senate Hall.

  I filed past the corpse in one of the two lines that led through the rotunda. Anise and her family were in front of me, Alexander just behind. A hazy sky looked down upon the body through the glass windows. The president had been a tall man, with angular patrician brows and a sharp chin. Mateo had said he inflicted a wound on the country that would never heal. He had lost California. He had helped create a society where machines shot citizens in the street. Yet, in death, he looked at peace. That didn’t seem right.

  The line moved briskly, feet clattering on the sparkling marble floors. The mourners shed no tears. Everyone wore black, but there was no doubt that I walked among the elite; these men and women wore silk and spun metal, their bodies strategically bedecked with diamond and platinum. Not that such signs were necessary. One had only to look at their perfect skin, symmetrical features, and gazes of self-importance to know I paid my respects among the genetic cream of the country. The general public had been granted access to pay their own humble respects for several hours earlier in the morning. The net had shown long lines, although certainly no one had come from Bronx City.

  After the highborn had got their last looks, the body was carried off to be buried beneath the Freedom Arch at the center of the new capitol complex. A flame would burn eternally at the grave site, where it would be visible to the congressmen, senators and presidents that followed. The service was broadcast on great net screens through the capitol complex and across the country. I stood between Anise and Alexander as we watched along with several hundred other Tuck students and alumni in the great reception room bedecked with American flags—the official ones with fifty stars. A running commentary of other related news ran beneath the picture. One particularly ominous message announced the creation of a new “Special Threats Force” to deal with the increased terrorist threat. No one else seemed to notice. They were fixed on the image of the coffin being paraded to its resting place.

  Six men carried the casket. I recognized only one of them: Jalen Aris-Putch. The late president’s wife walked beside them. Behind them were dark-clad dignitaries wearing faux solemn faces.

  “Why is Jalen there?” I asked Anise, keeping my voice low.

  “The Aris-Putch family were great supporters of the late president and the Traditionalists. A reward for loyalty.” Anise looked around carefully. In a quiet voice, she added, “Or a show of how foolish he is. A boy with new power and too much pride.”

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t just look, Daniela. You must see as well. This isn’t a funeral. It’s a show of strength. Fourteen corporations, or at least, the families that own them, control eighty million votes per federal election—the “great entities,” we call them. That’s almost half the total votes in the country—enough to make someone’s dog president. They are even more powerful in their home states. There are six pallbearers on that screen. Only two represent such entities: Jalen and Rudolph Banks.”

  “Who do the others support?”

  Anise shrugged. “You see the same thing I do. But ten entities would have been represented if Ryan-Hayes had survived instead of his vice president. Hoven has only two. That’s the message.”

  “All because the new president is a nope?”

  It was Alexander who answered. “The Traditionalists’ power was fading even before President Ryan-Hayes was killed. Many of the great entities opposed their policies as impractical and naive. Men like my late father.”

  “What policies?” I asked.

  “Keeping the legislative branch is a big one. Many don’t see the point under the new voting system. It just makes politics more expensive for no reason. Disorderly. The other big one is that President Ryan-Hayes and the Traditionalists have always opposed utilization punishment.” Alexander pronounced the last two words with distaste.

  “Sorry, utilization what? In English, Spanish, or Barriola, please.”

  “Chipping,” Anise interjected. “Many corps and allocators don’t see why we send criminals to prison at our expense when they could be chipped and made productive. The resource companies are hungry for cheap labor. Many of the consumer manufacturers as well. The late president was a lawyer from Georgia—he wanted nothing to do with anything resembling slavery. People were too afraid to challenge him on it before.”

  I shivered but kept my revulsion controlled. Listen and learn.

  “Who will be the next president, then?”

  “The answer is in front of you,” Anise said.

  I looked again at the screen, focusing o
n the procession behind the coffin. I studied the woman in front, walking alone, confident. Her jagged-boned face was dominated by a pair of upturned eyes that reminded me of a prowling cat. I frowned, looking over at Alexander. His eyes were fixed on the screen, his face a mask devoid of emotion. He had already seen what I had. Indeed, he had probably known it for some time. It explained his weariness. This was why Anise had implied that Alexander needed help.

  “It’s Virginia Timber-Night.”

  Anise nodded gravely. Alexander didn’t move. No wonder Arik was determined to have Rose-Hart’s vote allocation. His mother intended to be president. Alexander was in the way. Even Kristolan could’ve been a potential issue. I clenched my teeth. Alexander might be naive enough to think that the Trustee Council would decide objectively on who controlled Rose-Hart, but I knew better. The stakes were too high. Alexander would lose out to Arik. I would lose the clinic, and Mateo would lose any hope for a cure. I fought the urge to grab Alexander, to haul him away, to tell him I could help. I wanted him to tell me what was going on in his head. But I knew he wouldn’t speak to me here. Maybe he wouldn’t anywhere.

  “Deuces,” I muttered.

  Alexander fixed me with a stare, disapproving of my Bronx City crassness.

  The hair on the back of my neck stood, but I didn’t let my anger take control. This time I understood, at least a little. I reached out for him, wrapping my hand around his arm as inconspicuously as possible. I squeezed. His eyes softened, the person I remembered revealing himself. There was such a sense of purpose inside Alexander. My chest felt lighter. I didn’t want to ruin the moment with words.

  Anise ended it for me. She drew me close and whispered, “It’s not over yet.” I turned to meet her eyes. There was a message there: “We can help him.”

  I nodded, vowing to do so. If Anise wanted to be an ally, so be it. She certainly understood richie politics better than I ever would.

  “Would you care to meet her?” Alexander asked me, his voice so mild he might have been inquiring as to what I wanted for lunch.