State of Order (Age of Order Saga Book 2)

by Julian North

  The top two rungs of the makeshift ladder were missing. That’s what passed for security for the roof dwellers. They probably had a ladder up there, but it would never be lowered for the likes of me. I climbed to the highest rung and took a deep breath. I’d have to get up as high as I could, then jump for the roof’s edge. I called the ice to my veins, then inched upward until my feet were on the top rung. My vision still wasn’t normal. I pictured myself leaping upward and grabbing the ledge. The sound of a spray gun ripped through the air. Before doubt could creep in, I jumped. My hands snatched at the ledge, and eight of ten fingers wrapped themselves around the rough brick of the roof’s edge. Bits of mortar fell onto my face. I squeezed harder. My heart hammered. More pieces of rock fell. I had more faith in the strength of my grip than the integrity of the building. I rocked my legs from side to side until I had enough momentum to swing a foot onto the roof. Once I had one leg as an anchor, I yanked the rest of my body upward, rolling onto the black bitumen roof with relief. It was short-lived.

  The area was cluttered with a haphazard array of corrugated metal structures covered with plastika sheeting. The tallest dwellings were higher than my chest; the shortest barely reached my waist. Fabricated cloth served as doorways. A spiderweb of illegal power and net connections wound their way precariously into and out of the structures. The air was a terrible mélange of smells that included garbage, human waste, and illegal fuel. I could see the top turret of the enforcement drone in the distance, but it was far enough away that I didn’t think it had the angle to target me. The airborne vehicles could, though. Something resembling a pathway cut through the packed hovels. It was narrow—I’d have to turn sideways to squeeze through, but I didn’t see any other way to cross to the next roof.

  I moved toward the opening. My skin prickled as hidden eyes stared out at me from within the shanties. I took a breath and entered the slim passage, moving as fast as I dared in such an awkward space. I scraped my shoulder on a rough metal edge I hadn’t seen. I bit down on my lip from the pain, but I didn’t stop. The alley wasn’t straight—I couldn’t see the end, just a bend ahead. I kept going.

  A foul-smelling troll of a man jumped out behind me as I worked my way through the passage. He said nothing—one hand reached for my throat, the other held a rusted kitchen knife. I was faster. I batted his hand away with my own, knocking his fingers into the battered metal siding. I edged away, creating more space to fight.

  He cursed in pain. “You trespassin’, dolly.” Trollie’s teeth were rotted, his face a minefield of ugly red pockmarks framed by two filthy dreadlocks.

  “Just passing through.”

  He showed me more of those foul teeth. I could smell the filth of his breath. The knife twirled in his hand. “Gotta pay the tax if you wanna pass.”

  I was taller, better fed, and stronger than this creature, but he was more desperate. Sometimes there is no choice but to fight. “I don’t have money, and you’re not getting anything else from me,” I told him as I moved my left hand toward the pocket that held my repulse spray.

  A flicker in Trollie’s eyes told me that someone else was coming from behind me. The newcomer didn’t know what I knew, though. I didn’t want to trill. Not here. Not with Authority drones listening. But I didn’t know if the repulse spray would be enough against two assailants. Not in such close quarters. And I was standing in the middle of their homes. There would be more. I couldn’t win a fight against a dozen, trilling or not.

  “Leave her be, Acer,” said the voice behind me. A female voice.

  I dared only a brief glance. A short, squat woman of middle years approached, her gray hair tied back in a tight tail, her dark skin worn by life. She came toward me, gingerly sliding her girth through the structures on either side of the passage. She carried no obvious weapon.

  “But she’s a stranger, Ma,” whined Trollie.

  “She’s one of us. And we got bigger problems today. Get yourself back inside. Don’t be arguing with me.”

  Trollie gave me a menacing flare of teeth before ducking inside a curtain. I turned back to the woman Trollie had called Ma.

  “Gra-litas,” I told her in Barriola. I barely stopped myself from bowing my head, highborn style. “I just want to pass through.”

  “You’re the girl on the net. The one who raced the richies.”

  I frowned. “I guess I am.”

  Her dull black eyes shined for a moment. “You start all this? You blow up that clanger?”

  “No. Not me.” It came out as a whisper.

  The woman broke into an ugly smile, as if I had said the opposite. “It’s about time someone did something. We’ll pay for it, of course. But still…” She cackled, then punctuated the ugly noise with a deep cough. “Go across these roofs, girl. I ’spect you’re going for shelter in that Waste clinic beneath the maze. Third roof over has stairs that lead inside the maze. Tell them Mama Jess sent you. That’ll see you through.” I didn’t have time to thank her before she too ducked inside her hovel.

  I was challenged by a raggedy child when I crossed to the next rooftop, then twice more by unsavory adults on the roof of the maze. In each case, Mama Jess’s name helped me avoid a fight. I entered the dark entrance to the maze’s stairwell with something approaching relief. Not that the maze was safe. It wasn’t. I walked warily into its warrens of stacked shelves, boxes, and crates that served both as home and shop to most of its residents. In addition to the people who worked there, the maze was well-stocked with thieves, beggars, and pushers. Its patrons usually sought the illicit, the forbidden, or were simply desperate. People slept in their scant spaces, often cooking or gambling in the staircases during their off time. The maze never truly closed, but this was the quietest I’d ever seen it. The only customers were those who had been trapped inside when the curfew was declared. It stank even worse than normal—the rudimentary air circulation system had no power.

  Before I’d been inside five minutes, one of the maze’s chasers spotted me. He had a raven’s beak for a nose and wore a torn robe of fabricated silk held together by gold stitches as his only garb, despite the chill. A ridiculously sized chain forged of interlocking rings fabricated to resemble iron hung down to the middle of his chest. I’d seen him on my previous visits, but his name escaped me. There were dozens of chasers who kept order in the maze, and I had trouble keeping track of them all. They all wore those heavy chains, though. I never bothered to ask the reason. This was Trinitarios territory, and they kept a degree of order. As long as Alexander’s money covered their protection fee, they kept the thieves at bay. It didn’t hurt that Mateo’s Carazones pretended to have the same Dominicano heritage as the Trinitarios.

  “Nice day for a visit, Dee-girl,” he said, his arms swinging as he approached, showing off the tattoo of the eastern portion of Hispaniola Island that was their gang’s favored symbol.

  I smirked, trying to sound more relaxed than I was. “It was that or get pulverized by the clangers… Gandy, right?”

  “Ya, that’s me. Heard the big gringo prez got whacked.” He grinned, revealing a mouth glittering with manufactured bling. “Been a bit rough ’round here latterly. Had a couple of scuffles among the groundlings down on level one.” He rubbed his chin, as if considering whether he should grant me a favor. “You want me to walk you down to your little hospital?”

  “I got it.”

  His shoulders slouched. It wasn’t the answer he wanted. “Jefe says to keep an eye on you. Says that your ghost-man friend saved his sis, so you all are blood right now. Somethin’ happens to you down there, I’m burned bad.”

  I shrugged. Jefe Black’s only sister had been suffering from a lung infection. The Bronx City docs said it was Resister-H and kicked her out on the street. Fuku—she was cursed—they whispered. Like getting the Waste. I heard Aba mutter about that superstitious crap on occasion. But Nythan thought otherwise. With some custom tweaking to one of the restricted Manhattan-only antibiotic strains, the bacteria causing her il
lness was licked. I’m pretty sure Nythan would have done it even if the little girl’s brother wasn’t Jefe Black, our defacto landlord, and even if Kortilla hadn’t been watching. But if Nythan’s good deeds afforded me some protection, that was fine by me. The maze was hardly safe, chasers or not.

  I headed toward the ladder that would bring me down to the ground level, with Gandy in tow. From there we took a dingy staircase that led into the basement, where we had the clinic. Another chaser, thin and probably no older than me, was sitting on the bottom step when we approached. He aimed his viser’s light at our faces.

  “Yo, Kazoo, it’s Gandy. Relax it.”

  “Runner girl, haven’t seen you here in a while,” Kazoo said. “Where’s your friend? Kortilla, right?”

  Everyone remembered Kortilla. “It’s quiet down here today. Even quieter than upstairs.”

  “Not exactly the best time for business,” Kazoo offered back.

  The Trinitarios didn’t let anyone live on the basement level. Commerce here was in high-value items: weapons, pure drugs, contraband fabricators, human organs. All things that would cause the Authority to bestir itself if they ever learned about them and the clinic. Nythan needed the power and net links down here, as well as real walls for secrecy and to protect the equipment.

  “Thanks for your help, gentlemen. Keep your head down if you need to go outside.” I walked off into the unlit passages, my viser serving as a torch in the cavernous night.

  It was even colder below ground. Long, bare hallways radiated in three directions from the stairs. They were all lined with locked doors made of real metal as old as this building. I’d never been inside any of the other rooms, but I’d seen the sort who came and went. They were the people who sat in dark corners of bars, the ones whose names you whispered, even when you were alone.

  The clinic’s entryway differed from those of the other rooms in several respects. First, I knew a camera was watching me as I approached. Second, our door had a biometric scanner attached in addition to requiring electronic entry codes. All those security measures, and others that I probably didn’t know about, were active, even without primary power. Nythan wasn’t the trusting sort. The equipment had cost Alexander dearly.

  My shoulders relaxed as the reinforced metal door clicked shut behind me and the dim emergency lighting flickered on. A lounge-style examination chair dominated the larger of the two rooms in the suite. Terminals, scopes and analyzers, a fabricator, and a portable generator took up much of the rest of the space. Nythan’s desk was cluttered with a collection of ridiculous twentieth century relics, including a black-cloaked robot-man wearing a respirator on his chest. There was some additional medical equipment in the back room. Nythan called the whole setup medieval, and it was compared to what he’d enjoyed at the Lenox Life Center, but it was the best we could manage with the funds available. I didn’t care about equipment acquisition costs right now, though. I was glad to be standing in what was probably one of the safest places in BC. It was also the secret hiding place of the stolen controlColonies. Nythan was confident that no one in Manhattan would ever try to search for them here, and anyway, they were concealed in a scan-proof box inside the toilet. Another of Nythan’s special touches.

  I cleaned the cut on my shoulder that I’d gotten on the rooftop, then collapsed into the examination chair. The room was eerily quiet. I knew hell was breaking out on the streets just a few feet above me, but it seemed a world away from the clinic. I glanced at my viser. The Authority was blocking communications and net access. I assured myself that Kortilla was safe at home with her family. I wasn’t sure about Aba, but she never went anywhere except work and home. In either place, it was hard to imagine any harm coming to her. Whatever her faults, she knew how to survive.

  My thoughts turned to Mateo, and they weren’t happy ones. What the hell had he been thinking? And where had he gotten the guns?

  Most families in BC had at least one firearm. Many had more. Pistols, rifles, even some old automatic weapons were common enough. The Authority had stopped bothering to sweep for projectile weapons years ago. They banned the ammunition instead. But projectile guns couldn’t penetrate the black boots’ body armor, and they were useless against enforcement drones, so as far as the Authority was concerned, guns just meant barrio folks killing each other, and were therefore a low priority. Force weapons were another matter.

  Energy weapons required a license to purchase, and those licenses were never granted to any private citizen in BC. A few of the big-time drug barons might have them, but no one carried them on the streets. The Authority would shoot to kill upon seeing an illicit force weapon. That meant someone had to have brought them in illegally. And put them in the hands of people like Mateo—who would be certain to use them against the Authority. The only people I could think of who would do something like that would be California. It seemed too much of a coincidence that force weapons appeared all over BC the day after the president was shot. Something big was afoot. And it had nothing to do with helping the people of the barrio. We were being used.

  Chapter 8

  Time passed slowly in the lonely room.

  The thick walls surrounding me created an artificial peace. The curfew meant commerce on this floor had essentially stopped. The net was still jammed, and I didn’t want the kind of company that the other occupants of the maze offered. So I sat by myself, with my troubled thoughts. It had been months since I had been alone like this. Since starting at Tuck, I had been going nonstop, always moving, always with someone, always with a problem to solve. By the time I got home most nights, I was exhausted. I did my best to avoid Aba’s hard gazes, then awoke the next morning to do the whole thing again. Now I had to face myself. I didn’t like it.

  My relationship with Alexander was a confused mess. My brother was trying to start a war against the Authority and drag me into it. I didn’t like the way people in my neighborhood called my name out, as if they knew me—they didn’t. I shuddered when I thought about how Mama Jess hadn’t seemed to hear me when I told her I’d had no part in starting this inferno. Kortilla was still there for me, of course. I told myself this was still my home. But right now, it felt as alien as Manhattan.

  I ate the few crackers we had in the pantry, drank some filtered water, and stared aimlessly at my viser. I wondered if Nythan was really as close as he claimed to curing Mateo. He said he was preparing a new controlColony with special DNA customized for my brother that he thought would work—he just needed a bit more time and slightly better equipment. But I’d been hearing that for a month.

  Eventually, I fell asleep. When I awoke, my viser told me it was five o’clock Monday morning. The air was cold and my funeral gown wasn’t particularly comfortable. When I tried to access the net, I received a succinct response: Curfew In Effect.

  I was rubbing the sleep from my eyes when an alarm bell jolted me to my feet. I whipped my head around, searching. The ringing stopped. My heart beat rapidly in the silence. Then it came again. It wasn’t a standard claxon. It was the sound of metal striking metal: a real bell ringing, like at my old BC school. And it was nearby. Inside the clinic.

  The ringing stopped as I followed the noise. The sound was coming from Nythan’s makeshift lab in the back. I flicked my viser’s light to maximum to supplement the dim backup ceiling lights as I entered the small, square room. The ringing erupted again. Its point of origin was the antique black robot-man. Apparently its rotating turret head contained an ancient telephone.

  I approached the shaking machine cautiously. Its lights flashed each time the telephone rang. I picked up the ancient receiver, placing one side on my ear, the other below my mouth. A stretchy cord joined the machine and the handset. I heard sound coming from the part near my mouth. I flipped the silly thing around.

  “Hello?” I asked awkwardly.

  “Daniela?” asked the voice on the other end. Static hissed in the background.

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve won the Publis
hers Clearing House Sweepstakes!”

  I shook my head. “Nythan?”

  “How did you know it was me?” He sounded genuinely puzzled.

  “What other jack-A calls me on a hundred-year-old toy telephone?”

  “You want me to hang up?” He sounded way too amused. My blood was getting hot.

  “I want to know what is going on.”

  I heard static instead of an answer at first. “…and everyone else. The net says order has been restored in BC, and the Authority’s forces are hunting terrorists. In the meantime, I heard the loyal citizens of Bronx City are all at home under curfew for your own protection.”

  “The clinic doesn’t offer great views. I’ve no idea what is going on outside. I’ll take a peek outside in a few minutes.”

  “Where’s Kortilla?” Nythan asked, sounding more hesitant this time.

  “Last I saw, she was at home, with her family, including her brothers, so about as safe as she can be. Don’t worry about Kortilla.”

  “She’s my best employee. Don’t even have to pay her.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Can you get me out of here? Even if I could walk the streets, I’m sure the subways into Manhattan are shut.”

  “You that worried about missing classes? Such a diligent student.”

  My fingers went white from squeezing the handset. I imagined it was Nythan’s neck. “Nythan…”

  “I’m just a pleb ’round here. Not even highborn. But maybe Alexander can manage something. I’ll ping him—net is working here. Stay near the phone. I’ll call you back.”