by Julian North
Alissa’s family had a sprawling sofa in their living room that hugged two intersecting walls. It was upholstered in a luxurious hazel fabric that felt like nothing I had sat on before—fur, silk, and leather wrapped in one beautiful mess. It melted around my body. We all could’ve slept comfortably there. I tried, but the racket of the others foiled my efforts.
My companions were playing v-Smack on their visers, swinging their arms at a non-existent ball, shouting at action that was invisible to me. No way was my body going to let me participate in virtual sports.
Irena brought us tea in an earthy ceramic pot and four white minimalist cups devoid of handles. She poured the chestnut-colored liquid with a practiced hand. Silky steam rose from my cup.
“Uh-oh, Alissa. Who grew these tea leaves?” Nythan mocked, switching off his viser with a flick of his finger.
“Why, Nythan, I’m glad you asked,” Alissa replied. “These leaves were grown in Korea. As you know, they don’t allow migrants, or child labor, much less chipped slaves, so it’s safe for even Daniela to drink. It was given to my mom as a gift—therefore, you will not be receiving an invoice when you leave today. We Manhattanites call this hospitality.”
“You joke and mock,” I said to them. “It’s easy to make light of things when you’re looking down from the top. When you are closer to being a slave, you might appreciate their plight a bit more.” I might have sounded more convincing if I hadn’t been ensconced on Alissa’s comfy sofa.
“There aren’t any slaves in this country,” Alissa said, almost flippant.
Lara’s face transformed from its usual glumness into a mask dominated by tight lines of anger. “And you know about slavery, Alissa?”
Lara’s icy tone took Alissa by surprise. She gaped at her friend.
Nythan interjected, his voice quiet, but no less thoughtful for it. “You mean there will never be slaves in this country again, right, Alissa? You need to pay attention in History.”
“Oh, come on, Nythan. I’m no Orderist, but even the most hardcore of them, like Landrew Foster-Rose-Hart, who openly advocate using force to deal with the ten percent problem, wouldn’t go that far. No chipping allowed here. Land of the free, right?” Alissa said, a wary eye on Lara whose jaw still pulsed with tension. I didn’t know what to make of it.
The conversation forced me out of the plush sinkhole of cushions. I’d heard Mateo talk about some of these things. But it was different hearing it from this group. These people were from the part of society that made the decisions. There was one term I had not heard before.
“Sorry, what is the ‘ten percent problem?’”
Nythan smiled the way a teacher does when a student asks a question that he wants to answer.
“It’s the same problem Huxley dealt with so eloquently in his book: the hard truth is that the world does not need the number of people it has. At least, not if you’re an economic rationalist like our leader. The economies of the world need brilliant people—super alphas, people with high ATs to design things and discover new ideas, and it needs some regular alphas to run things, a few betas to carry out orders, perhaps some deltas for…well…” he lowered his voice so Irena wouldn’t hear, “…to help with mundane tasks. Like raising spoiled little girls.” He jerked his head at Alissa. She hit him with a pillow.
“So in your world, only ten percent of the population is needed?” I asked.
Nythan shrugged. “Not my world. We’re talking economics here. But the world as seen by men like Landrew Fart, yes. We’re not there yet, but it’s coming. So, the question becomes: What do we about it? Do you think they should put the rest under the iceberg, so to speak? I’m guessing not.”
“Is that all the people who don’t measure high enough on some stupid AT scale are? A problem to be solved? Should we just chip everyone who fails a test, so they can be ‘productive,’ like the slave countries? Just economics, nothing personal?” I hadn’t intended it to come out so intense, but there it was.
He lifted his arms as if fending off an attack. “Whoa there. I’m not saying I’m for anything. I might be off the AT scale of genius, yes, but I don’t have the answer. No one does. It isn’t a question with a solution.”
“Huh?”
Again with the teacher’s smile. “It’s a question of philosophy. What do you value? Which is why you see so many different countries trying different solutions. In the past we had communism, or socialism, which essentially tried to redistribute the value created by the super alphas among everyone—each person got a job and a piece of the output, even if they just stood around. That didn’t work, of course. People are too greedy, particularly those who ended up running the system. Some of the northern European countries are still trying it in different forms—socialism, direct subsistence payments to their people, localism. We’ve got chipped slaves in parts of Central and South America, and a subtle version of slavery in the so-called “Harmonious Societies” of the east, where the government merely watches every aspect of your life, rather than using direct control. Until you step out of line. Korea is ruled by a corporate council, while other places have no government at all. Canada tried to value their people rather than money—until Alberta split off and winter came. None of it seems to work particularly well if you happen to be in the bottom ninety percent. So pick your poison.”
“What about California? People are free, they have Silicon Valley.”
“Ah yes, the California dream. While the Orderist propaganda about chaos in the streets of San Francisco is exaggerated, it’s becoming increasingly true. Cali has a democracy problem—the people vote for whoever promises more and screams against the rich the loudest. Even their once mighty thought giants are failing. The embargo isn’t helping, of course. It’s not like Asia is particularly anxious to see them succeed either. I doubt they’ll last. We’ll have unification eventually, even if Landrew Fart and his faction don’t force the President to invade. One year or ten, but not much more.”
My blood began to heat. “So this is the best there is? Correction for the masses, tea for the high ATs. Their so-called prosperity through order. I should be satisfied with that? Be glad I’m not chipped? People won’t stand for it.” I sounded like Mateo.
Nythan shrugged. “Scary, I know. I’m not excusing the Orderists, but there is a certain elegance to some of their theories: By tying voting rights to tax revenue they solved several problems at once. First, the government is controlled by those that contribute the greatest amount to economic output, so policy should be conducive to economic expansion—such as establishing the Vision Quad so our own thought giants can thrive. Next, they pretty much ended all material tax evasion, and saved a bundle in the process. Corporations line up to pay, because they want the votes. Individual rights—”
“Crap,” Alissa declared. “This country is riddled with corruption. They created a thriving patronage network. My parents see it every day at work. The government controls people through the corporations that own the echo stations on the net. No chips, but the net is another form of the same garbage.”
“The Orderist theory is better than the reality,” Nythan admitted.
“What happens to Bronx City, and everywhere else that isn’t Manhattan, Buckhead, Wilmet, Palm Beach…what happens to those of us that aren’t highborn or AT stars?”
Silence reigned in the room, unease on the faces of my wealthy companions. Even Lara’s eyes were downcast. The gravity among these people surprised me. I thought we were just talking, or at least Nythan was talking. I sat among the winners in Nythan’s theory—the elite above the water on Huxley’s iceberg. No one wanted to meet my eyes. I realized they weren’t worried about themselves. It was something else. Something worse.
Irena stepped in the room, shattering the prophetic atmosphere, if that’s what it had been.
“It’s past five, Ms. Alissa,” she said. “I need to be getting home if you don’t need anything else?”
There was no resentment in the housekeeper�
�s voice even though she was speaking to a sixteen-year-old. If anything, those eyes looked worried—the way a parent or grandmother was supposed to feel when leaving their offspring.
“We’re fine, Irena, thank you for coming in on a weekend,” Alissa told her, sounding gracious, but not like any sixteen-year-old I knew. “Please take anything from the fridge you’d like.”
I clenched my teeth as Irena gathered up the empty teapot and cups, carrying them away without another word. No one else paid attention to her, or the exchange with Alissa. All eyes were focused on visers.
Lara left soon after Irena. She had a dinner to go to, at Blah-Blah-Rich’s house, or something like that. Sounded fabulous to me. My shoulders unclenched as Alissa walked her out the door. Whatever had provoked Lara’s earlier flash of anger had faded.
“Think your friend Kortilla would come to a Manhattan party, if we could solve the travel pass issue?” Nythan asked me when we were alone.
“She’s not a U-date, or whatever those Manhattan ‘introduction’ services call it,” I replied, an edge in my voice.
Nythan gave me a smirk. “I haven’t seen that look before. Even when you’re furious.”
“That’s my really dangerous face.”
“Why? Does Kortilla need protecting?”
I rolled the question around in my head. “She gave me a family when I had none. Not something most kids would do, or even understand to do. And she never stopped sharing.” I dared to allow myself a memory of that curly-haired girl, her arm around my shoulder as I cried, an eternity ago. I pushed it away before it grabbed hold of me. “She doesn’t need protection. But she has it just the same.”
The three of us had just settled back on the sofa when Alissa got a ping. She walked to the door, returning a short time later with a pizza box. The most amazing, delicious aroma surrounded her. My mouth was like a river.
“You could say ‘no’ to eating this, Daniela,” Alissa said to me. “But you’d regret it. Call it a victory prize from your adoring fans. Besides, you’ll need fuel for the study session we’re starting after dinner, when Nythan finally leaves.”
I caved. It was worth it.
After my third slice, I knew the elite of Manhattan would never accept wealth redistribution in any form. No way they would switch to fabricated pizza after eating the real thing.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
Alissa owned three digiBooks, each capable of multiple screen displays. She could also take notes on her viser’s virtual keyboard while simultaneously reading and speaking. She remembered every word she looked at. I suspected she had an eidetic memory, or something close to it. She had also covered way more material for the Lit exam than I had.
“What do you mean, you haven’t read it?” Alissa asked as if I had told her I never showered.
“It’s not on Lynder’s reading list. Why should I read things he isn’t going to test us on?”
She rolled her eyes. “He probably won’t ask a direct question on a book not on the list, but you can be sure he’ll be asking questions where you can mention the author’s other works. It’s not just about the answers. You’ve got to show off a little to stand out at Tuck. Vonnegut wrote thirteen novels that weren’t Slaughterhouse-Five.”
“I don’t have time to read thirteen novels that I might be able to mention, but aren’t really on the test, Alissa. I need to read the words, not just glance at them like you.”
“You’ve got to be strategic,” she said, flipping through one of her screens.
I looked down as my viser vibrated with an incoming ping. I blinked several times at the message. My heart raced as I considered the implication of what I saw. None of my thoughts were good. A cold hand gripped my heart.
“What’s wrong?” Alissa asked, her fingers still.
“It’s from Kortilla—I think,” I said, still trying to puzzle out what was going on. “And I think something bad has happened.” Please let me be wrong.
“What do you mean, you think?”
“The message is in Barriola. It’s been sent from the viser of Pele Ostevez.”
“None of those things mean anything to me. Why do you think it’s from Kortilla if it’s from someone else?”
“It says ‘your cat caught a bad thorn.’ I sometimes call my brother my cat because he comes to our room to piss and do his business, but is out hunting trouble the rest of the time. Pele is a punk kid, works the door in Kortilla’s building. He’s got a thing for her.”
Alissa shook her head. “I still don’t get it. If your brother is hurt, why wouldn’t Kortilla red ping you herself?”
I chewed my bottom lip as I stared at Alissa. She had bailed me out of trouble once already. I couldn’t think of anything I had that she wanted, yet she stood with me. Against that, she hadn’t told me everything about Marie-Ann. But I needed help.
“My brother—he’s political, you might say. If his troubles involved the Authority, Kortilla would be cautious. She never uses Barriola. She calls it toilet talk. But the Authority has trouble with it. No standard spellings or grammar and it changes all the time, so their computers can’t track it. They might be monitoring my viser, hers as well. Her brothers run in the same circle as Mateo.”
Alissa didn’t hesitate. She stripped off her viser and handed it to me. “No way anyone associates me with your brother. Ping this Pele.”
I did, before Alissa came to her senses. My fingers shook as I input Pele’s information. I set the ping for audio only.
“Ms. Gatto?” asked Pele’s voice.
“Jes, Pele.”
Kortilla’s voice came on. “Cat’s hurt. My big bro’ got a message. Your pet’s on wheels, on the money island.” I wondered what the hell he was doing in Manhattan, then remembered the netcasts about the raids the Authority had been conducting for so-called terrorists. If he was mixed up in that, it would explain why I hadn’t heard back from him.
“How bad?” I tried to keep my voice steady. I wasn’t breathing.
“Hermana, cat needs a vet bad. I’m sorry. But if he goes to one on money island…You know…”
I did know. If he turned up at a hospital, any hospital, they would be legally bound to report any suspicious injury to the Authority. In BC, I could’ve managed to find someone. But in Manhattan, I didn’t know anyone. It was too risky trying to cross one of the bridges—inspection points and sensors were everywhere.
“I can help,” Alissa told me.
I gaped. “How?”
“Tell them to get him to the southeast corner of Eighty-Seventh Street and Lexington.”
“How soon?” I didn’t understand how she was going to get a doctor, but I didn’t have any other choice, and she seemed certain.
“Stay here,” Alissa said. “I’ll be right back.”
“Nothing about this over the open net,” I urged her. “The Authority could be listening.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll use the Tuck network—it’s encrypted. And they wouldn’t dare spy on it anyway.” Alissa ran out of the room, towards the back of the apartment. Maybe to her room. Maybe to the office with its terminals. As a Tuck student, she’d have direct access to the Castle private network at home—a system isolated from the rest of the net by design. But that was only good to contact students. Or teachers.
“I’m working on it,” I told Kortilla. “Can you get a message to bring kitty to Eighty-Seventh and Lexington, southeast corner?”
There was a pause, an uncomfortable one. “I’ll get them the message,” Kortilla told me finally.
Alissa ran back into the room, quicker than I would’ve dared hope. “Get them there. We’ll have a doctor ready. Have the vehicle with your brother stop at the corner and flash its headlights three times.”
I relayed the signal information to Kortilla. “Thank you, hermana. There are no words.”
The connection ended.
“Alissa, what doctor did you get? This sounds serious. If the Authority finds out—”
“Havelock is arranging it.”
“Why would he do that?”
Alissa grimaced, her eyes glazed. That agile mind that could handle three simultaneous tasks was making a judgment about how much to tell me. “He takes care of us. People like you, and me.”
“You mean students that aren’t highborn?”
“Something like that. You can trust him with this. He knows what he’s doing. He’ll get someone to help your brother.”
“Why would he take this kind of risk for a student? Not even a student—my brother. Pulling some strings to get me out of an Authority van, I get that. But this is facilitating illegal medical care—he could lose his job, end up in detention, or worse.”
Alissa shook her head. “It’s his story to tell, not mine. Ask him when you can.” I went to protest, but she held up her hand to let me know it would be futile. “I’ll get you a coat to wear over your clothes. You look too BC. Something dark. One of my mom’s should work. Bring it back, though.”
Alissa fetched me an elegant black pea coat that hung past my knees. Jade buttons adorned its front, genuine silk lined its interior. I would’ve been paranoid about ruining it on any other night. But tonight there was only Mateo.
She walked me to the door. There was no way I would’ve let her come along, and she didn’t try. This was my fight. She had already done too much. I hugged Alissa as I left. Whatever the cost for this, I’d find a way to pay.
I tried not to run the three blocks to the meeting point. There wasn’t any reason to rush. I doubted the car would be there yet. Certainly, Havelock and the doctor wouldn’t be so quick. But I found my legs moving faster than they should have been. Sweat clung to my skin. The coat Alissa had given me was too warm for the early fall air, but that wasn’t the reason. I rubbed my fingers against my palms, trying to banish the numbness.