Age of Order

by Julian North

  “Bullshit,” I said, trying to keep the tiny part of me that wished this wasn’t a lie from showing. “I never applied. I couldn’t get an application even if I wanted one—they don’t take tenth-grade transfers. I couldn’t pay the processing fee, much less the tuition. And it’s three weeks into the school year, even in Manhattan.”

  “Ah, well, the circumstances are unusual, I must agree,” the white guy admitted, shuffling his feet. “You did, however, apply to the Five Cities Gifted and Talented Program several years ago. Your test scores were near perfect, and your athletic achievements are quite impressive. We do strive for a well-rounded student. And we…ah…we have access to that information. We estimate your Aptitude Tier rating is thirty-three: the ninety-ninth percentile of the population. As to—”

  “They terminated the gifted program. Budget cuts.”

  Howards gave me an impatient nod. “Yes, well, as I was saying. Due to a provision in our school’s charter and the unexpected vacancy, we find ourselves with a slot available that must be filled, even at this late date. And we would like to offer it to you, along with a financial incentive package, renewable annually, until graduation.”

  “That’s crap,” I declared, but my voice was shaking.

  He tapped his viser. “I’ve transmitted the offer letter and financial package to your viser. I would encourage you to review it soon. The offer expires at midnight tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” I parroted like an idiot.

  “As I said, the circumstances are quite unusual. If you aren’t interested, well, there are plenty of others who will be. We don’t expect you to decide without seeing the school first. As such, I’ve sent you a pre-paid travel pass for the subway into Manhattan for tomorrow. We’ll have a volunteer parent guide available to give you and your grandmother, who I believe is your legal guardian, a tour of the school at four o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Mr. Havelock, the headmaster, will meet with you following your tour, before you make a final decision.”

  I looked Howards up and down, from his shoes to his artificial hair, searching for something that didn’t match his story. Kortilla’s mom had taught me to spot the difference between fabricated cloth and real cotton, as well as quality tailoring from the printed stuff. This guy’s clothes checked out, so did his silly hair and pale face. If he had an angle, I couldn’t figure it out.

  “I’ll read it.”

  “Please do,” he said without much sincerity. “I hope I’ll have the opportunity to see you again.” He finished our conversation with an uncomfortable, Manhattan-style head bow, then strode off towards the street, to what I presumed would be a waiting car ready to whisk him back across the river.

  As soon as Howards had gone ten steps, Kortilla was on me like a dog to dinner. “What the hell was that all about?”

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  Kortilla and I boarded the subway train at the Fordman Road station, picking our way through the dubious collection of loiterers clustered around its entrance. There was no way I was bringing Aba down to Manhattan, whatever that gringo said. Having Aba involved would only make my life harder.

  “An all-expense paid ride to the fanciest, richest school is too good to be true,” Kortilla reminded me as we slipped inside the train, jostling for a pair of empty seats. “They ain’t never going to offer it to a Latina girl from Bronx City who ain’t even applied.”

  “I know.”

  “They want something from you. Something they can’t buy with their money, so it’s gotta be something big…and bad.”

  “I want something too,” I said, my voice not much more than a whisper. “Tuck could help me get it. For Mateo.”

  Kortilla squeezed my shoulder.

  “The next stop is Grand Concourse Station,” announced a garbled voice from the train’s ceiling. “Please be advised that passengers continuing on this train beyond the next station to Manhattan without a valid entry permit or travel pass will incur a charge of twenty-five dollars. Violators will face identity indenture.”

  I check my viser, confirming that Howards travel pass was online. Neither of us could afford the fine.

  “When was your last trip to Big M?” Kortilla asked me.

  “I was five. My mom used to take us.” I didn’t want to talk about it.

  “Sorry,” Kortilla said, recognizing my tone.

  I gave her a better answer as penance. I’d asked her to come, after all. “I barely remember. Mateo told me about it. She worked as a maternity nurse in one of their fancy hospitals, so she had a work permit that let her travel into the city whenever she wanted. She could even go into the parks, no extra charge. So she’d take us on the days she didn’t have to work.”

  “And now you could go there every day too,” Kortilla offered. “No lurkers, or muggers. Long afternoons lying on the real grass of Central Park with your highborn friends…” She had her mocking voice in full form by the time she got to the last. I pushed my shoulder into hers, and we both laughed.

  “You?” I asked.

  “Never,” Kortilla admitted. “Guess you’ll have to show me around.”

  The train became more crowded as we journeyed further into Manhattan. Men and women hopped on and off at the various stops, much as I would’ve expected elsewhere. Manhattan passengers differed from Bronx City riders primarily in terms of clothes, which looked newer; ornamentation, which included a dizzying array of glittering jewelry, hair beads, and skin implants that would’ve seen you robbed within five minutes if you wore them around Bronx City; and facial features, which were overwhelmingly Caucasian or Asian.

  I wore the best of my limited wardrobe, a chocolate-colored blouse and midnight slacks, conservative and proper. Both were fabricated, but of the higher quality variety. I did not intend to present myself as a beggar, even if the highborn undoubtedly thought of me as such. Kortilla took a different tack. She looked beautiful, as she always did, but she had selected a tighter and lower cut ensemble for this journey than she would have ordinarily worn on a typical school day. The denizens of Manhattan seemed to appreciate her decision. Most of the men, and no small number of women, gave her more than one glance upon entering the train.

  We exited the subway at Eighty-Sixth Street. It took several moments to take it all in. Manhattan was a bigger, sleeker version of Bronx City. Except no boxes littered the streets, no illegal shacks crowded the roofs of the buildings, no beggars huddled about, and there were no lurkers in the alleys. I didn’t see a single gas guzzler on the roads. The gray of Bronx City had been replaced by brighter, clearer air; the giant spires of Midtown loomed in the distance to the south, grand peaks of commerce. Northward were the bizarre architectural goliaths of the Vision Quad. Above us, at least a dozen small flying saucers danced in the breeze, silently tracking their human owners. Familiars.

  My viser vibrated as I gaped at my surroundings. When I looked down at my arm, I saw a street map displaying directions that would lead us to Tuck. I wrinkled my nose. “What are the red streets?”

  Kortilla leaned over to glance at my viser. “Private streets. Restricted to residents and people on official business with entry passes. They’ve got some near City Hall in Bronx City too.”

  “It’s most of the neighborhood, including the street Tuck is on…”

  “Yeah, sister, so don’t go wandering about looking for fancy houses,” Kortilla advised. “And don’t get too close to any of these richies. I don’t want to get zapped by some floating attack dog. Let’s get moving so you’re not late.”

  My viser illuminated its suggested route and we set off at a brisk pace, eventually turning onto Madison Avenue. Elegant shops lined the sidewalk, selling clothing, ornaments, fragrances, cosmetic enhancements of every sort as well as a variety of wares so alien I couldn’t guess their purpose. It was stuff I had not even considered needing, but Kortilla looked inside the shop windows hungrily.

  A woman with legs up to my chest emerged from one of the illustrious establishments. She was
shaped like an hour-glass, but had the shrunken face of a mummy. A tiny dog, prim and bejeweled, traveled in her substantial shadow. The creature emitted a yelp of disdain upon gazing at us. Mummy sucked in her breath at the mere sight of us. She retreated as if confronted by lurkers, conferring urgently with the distinguished shop’s door minder.

  I forced a laugh, but my skin crawled with each speculative glance aimed at us. I wanted to get this whole thing over with. I wanted to get back to where I belonged.

  We turned onto Eighty-Ninth Street, heading towards the center of the block. Both sides of the street were lined with stately townhouses between four and five stories high, many with massive windows that pre-dated climate control. None looked like a school. My viser directed us to six rigidly carved steps guarded by twin stone tigers that stared at us with disapproval. We were strangers in a strange land. A pair of matching antique oak doors with wrought iron trim and ancient brass knockers loomed before us at the top of the stairs. They looked like something out of a Victorian-era sim show. We climbed the steps and stared at the ominous doorway. Before we could even consider how to open the giant things, they swung towards us. A swirl of glitter, hair and alterator-sculpted beauty emerged, beaming like a child on her fifth birthday. I’d never seen teeth so white—I think I saw my reflection as she bounded towards me.

  “Oh, you must be Daniela Mach-ado!”

  Smiley got the pronunciation mostly correct. I guessed she’d been practicing in the mirror. That must’ve been a strange effect, given the reflectiveness of her teeth.

  “We’re so pleased you could come for your tour.” Smiley’s voice reminded me of a bird’s chirp, its edges almost song-like. I suspected the alterations to her hair, skin, teeth, and who knew where else, included some voice modifications as well. “I’m Meredith Flint-Dayish, lead parent tour guide. I want you to know right away that both my daughters go here. One is in middle school, the other is a junior in the high school. I know what it’s like. You can ask me anything.”

  Kortilla and I both gaped at her. I wasn’t trying to be rude, I’d just never met anyone like Smiley in real life. It felt like having an animated sim character jump into my bedroom. These richies were a different species. Getting no immediate response from me, Smiley finally noticed Kortilla. The grin vanished.

  “And…you…are?” No-Longer-Smiley arched her eyebrows as she pored over Kortilla and her inappropriate outfit.

  I had a hunch Kortilla intended to give Ms. Flint-Dayish a zinger that would make the next hour or so of my life very uncomfortable. I threw an arm around Kortilla’s shoulder. “This is my sister. My grandmother couldn’t make it, unfortunately.”

  “She couldn’t make it to a tour of Tuck?” Ms. Flint-Dayish looked like I had just informed her that I had descended from another planet. Whatever the alterator had done to her face, it had made her unusually expressive. I was starting to enjoy myself more than I had anticipated. “Well, I’m sure that will be fine.” Her tone indicated that she didn’t think that at all.

  Smiley motioned for us to follow her inside. We passed through those ancient doors into a chamber of abrupt modernity. To our left, a pair of serious-looking men in silly lemon-citrus uniforms stood behind a duraglass shield. To our right, I saw an anteroom fitted with rotating shelves, many filled with familiars. A rectangular hatch set high in the wall opened to the outside, allowing the machines to depart without using the doorway. Directly in front of us, another set of doors stood sentinel, transparent, but thick and unmistakably tough.

  “Familiars are not allowed anywhere within the school,” Ms. Flint-Dayish informed us as if we cared. “Nor weapons of any kind. If your viser has protection features, they must be disabled at all times within the school. External networks are jammed within school grounds. We want our students focused.”

  I nodded, wondering if they had weapon scanners here. Probably. Well, I didn’t have to worry about expulsion, so I might as well see how good their sensors were. Flint-Dayish took our silence as acquiescence. She nodded to the security personnel who opened the portals, allowing us to enter the infamous Tuck School. We did. No alarm went off. The sensors had failed to detect either my repulse spray or my skin color.

  It smelled like old people inside.

  “This whole block is the school—both sides. Underground as well. We’ve kept the historical facades, but it’s all Tuck inside now. Classes are done for the day, but many of our students are still here, working on homework or other after-school activities. Just about everything you can imagine can be pursued here, you know.”

  She wasn’t kidding. Flint-Dayish showed us things I never imagined seeing in a school. Tuck had four fabrication labs, some of which had equipment that could replicate liquids and gasses. It had reality simulation rooms, an observatory, and its own power plant to run it all in the event the grid failed. The classrooms were ancient, beautiful, and scary. Some were rigged with the latest screen and simulation technology; in others, I saw students hunched over desks using antique ink pens and real paper. The cafeteria was the most opulent room I had ever seen, with curtains of gold and candelabras of crystal below windows of colored glass. Plants—real ones—dotted the wood-paneled hallways. But the one thing that topped it all was the recreation facilities. These people had their own indoor track on one of the sub-levels, with environmental simulators that could mimic almost any condition.

  “This is for practice,” Flint-Dayish explained, probably enjoying my stupid awe. “We compete at the Armory, of course.”

  I got the chills hearing that. I couldn’t help it. The Armory was legend. The finest track facility in the country. Olympians competed there. I’d dreamed about that place. It had been a reason to keep living.

  Kortilla saw my expression, felt my resolve waver. She poked me with a sharp elbow.

  “They also make you eat correction pellets,” she whispered.

  I bit my lip as Flint-Dayish continued the tour. She showed us everything from the kindergarten through the high school. She gave us the highlights, never lingering too long in any one place. We encountered a few students, all immaculately dressed in the navy and white colors of Tuck, but otherwise quite normal looking, except for some outrageous hair styles. They greeted Ms. Flint-Dayish politely, and unfailingly made offers to Kortilla and me to answer any questions we might have. They spoke directly to us, making eye contact, their words laced with superficial sincerity. Even the elementary school kids.

  As we neared the end of the tour, I found the nerve to ask a question. “Have all the students been here since kindergarten?”

  “Some even before that,” Flint-Dayish said.

  “They give admission tests to three-year-olds?” Kortilla asked, incredulous.

  “Of course,” Flint-Dayish replied. “They have their methods of determining Aptitude Tiers, even at that age. It’s mostly in the genes.”

  “I thought the barrio was loco,” Kortilla muttered.

  Flint-Dayish sighed heavily, looking as if she was going to comment, then stopped herself. Her blazing smile abruptly reappeared. I wondered how much pain was beneath that mask. She didn’t feel any more comfortable in this place than I did.

  “I better get you to Mr. Havelock,” Flint-Dayish informed us with artificial sweetness.

  She ushered us down several flights of stairs that creaked like the floorboards in my own apartment. The tour had educated me in the difference between “traditional” and “rundown”: it was determined by whether you could afford to fix the object in question or not.

  We entered a suite of administrative cubicles on the school’s second floor, past a collection of persons who ignored us in favor of their screens, until we came to a set of offices at the back of the area. There, an ancient lady graced by natural-looking gray hair rose from her desk to greet us with the swiftness of a far younger woman.

  “Welcome, Ms. Machado,” she said, sounding like a native speaker and extending a hand in greeting. “I’m Elsa Mark, Mr. Havelock
’s assistant.”

  I took her hand and noticed something that looked like genuine warmth in her eyes. She offered her hand to Kortilla as well, making a note of her name. If she felt any annoyance at my bringing a high school pal rather than my legal guardian, she hid it well. Elsa Mark looked to be in her sixties—a decade too old to be highborn.

  “Ms. Machado, Mr. Havelock said to send you right in when you arrived. Ms. Gonzales can wait here.” To Kortilla she added, “I’ll get you a guest code for our network since your viser’s external functions are blocked. Would you like something to eat or drink while you wait?”

  Kortilla grinned. She would probably order a steak. I hoped she wouldn’t embarrass me too much. Kortilla leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Stay strong. Do what you have to do.”

  I walked towards the door of Mr. Havelock’s office with those words echoing in my ear, but with very different sentiments stirring in my heart. They want something big from me. I just couldn’t imagine what that could be.

  Mr. Yonas James Havelock had skin as dark as midnight, a gracious manner, and child-like delight in his eyes as he walked from behind a great mahogany desk to greet me. He wore an antique-style suit, red bow tie at his neck. If he had introduced himself as my long-dead father, I wouldn’t have been any more surprised than I was at that moment. He extended his long, spidery arm towards me.

  “Such a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Machado.” He took my hand in his and covered it with his other palm. “Thank you for coming in on such short notice, and in such unusual circumstances.”

  He led us to a pair of oversized chairs arrayed about a circular coffee table. The carpet was so thick it felt like walking on pudding. The table top was a screen. Pictures of triumphant Tuck students cycled across its surface. Havelock blanked the display with a flick of his fingers.