State of Order

by Julian North

  I was on my feet. “Where did they take them?”

  Nacho drummed his fingers on the table. His gaze swept over me, calculating what else I might have that he wanted, besides silver.

  “Talk. Now.” I spoke of fire and ice. This creature deserved to be broken. I was out of patience.

  Something like alarm flickered behind his eyes. Predators sense danger. “The seriously injured went to the hospital. You know the place.”

  Relief swept through me. “So, they’re in the hospital. Kortilla and Mateo both?” I couldn’t be that lucky. I wasn’t.

  Nacho wagged a finger at me. “I said the injured were taken to the hospital. Your friend Kortilla is there. She’s hurt. Some of her family too. But your brother ain’t. He wasn’t hurt too bad. The able-bodied didn’t go to the hospital, my dear.” He paused again.

  I drew the power. Cold flowed in my veins. I was mighty. I could do as I willed. I hadn’t used the power to injure directly. But at that moment, I knew I could. Kris had hinted as much. She said that power was so much more than I knew. She was the first triller, with years to explore the depth of her power. And now I felt some of that as well. Nacho sensed it. Like a dog standing on top of a volcano about to erupt, something must’ve told him of the danger. He spoke hastily.

  “They took everyone else to detention. The black boots are done fiddling with correction, it seems. They are playing for keeps this time. Your brother’s at Fulton Fishkill.”

  Chapter 21

  I grabbed Nythan by the arm as I hurried out of the bar.

  He was talking to Manny about something inane. I heard the words “Rogue One” mentioned as I yanked him outside to the alley.

  I heard Manny call out, “Easy girl, he looks delicate…” as the reinforced door slammed shut behind us. I pulled him a couple more steps into the alley.

  “They’ve got Mateo.” My voice was steadier than I expected it to be. “Maybe others.”

  “Where?”

  “Fishkill.”

  “Are you sure? You trust that guy?”

  I sneered. “I don’t trust Nacho at all. He’s a parasite. I was ready to grind his tiny mind to dust, though. But it was like with Alissa. I would’ve known if he lied. I think he sensed the danger. He told me the truth—as best he knows it, anyway.”

  “Kortilla too?”

  “She’s in the hospital. Injured. I don’t know how bad.” She could be dying, but I was relieved. Better the hospital than Fishkill.

  “We find Kortilla first,” Nythan said too quickly. He noticed my eyes sharpen. “I’m not saying I don’t care about your brother. But that’s an investigation. First, let’s make sure Kortilla doesn’t need additional medical care. That’s something we can take care of right now.”

  He was right. And it was the right thing to do anyway—I had to help those I could help, those who wanted help. But Mateo haunted me. He always had. Even if he didn’t deserve it.

  “Okay.”

  “Do you know which hospital?”

  A bitter laugh escaped my lips. “There’s only one real hospital in Bronx City. The other places that call themselves that don’t have real doctors, just some painkillers and overburdened volunteers who should’ve quit a long time ago. If you have an actual injury that requires surgery, you go to St. Barnabas and pray.”

  We set off with nervous feet through the hollow streets. I fought the urge to break into a sprint. That would’ve just gotten me plugged with a correction pellet, if I was lucky. Fortunately, it wasn’t far. In fifteen minutes, we were there.

  St. Barnabas was established shortly after the Civil War, hundreds of years ago, and the building still had an aged dignity that durasteel and plastika could never quite emulate. It was a massive complex of rectangular brick buildings, its main entryway signaled by four great Roman-style columns with giant crosses on top. Chaos reigned outside the hospital’s crumbling walls when we arrived.

  A mob of people had gathered in front of the entranceway. A steady trickle of new arrivals added to their numbers. They pushed and shoved in the long shadow of an enforcement drone, watchful but seemingly inert.

  “That’s a lot of people to push through,” Nythan said as we neared. “And I’m not sure what the criteria for entrance might be.”

  “I used my last coin on Nacho, but there is another way in. The money to keep St. Barnabas open comes from two places: the Church and the gangs. We’ll go with the gangs.”

  “The gangs?”

  “St. Barnabas specializes in gunshot and knife wounds. And their only paying clients get discreet, preferred access. Follow me.”

  I led Nythan away from the hospital, onto an adjacent street, to a beaten-up storefront that claimed to be a pharmacy, at least according to the faded letters on the window. I tapped on the duraglass door.

  “What do you want?” asked a static voice above.

  “Corazones admittance,” I said.

  The door buzzed and we stepped inside the so-called pharmacy, which boasted three rows of bare shelves and a carpet that was beyond threadbare. A shortish man with a thick gut, charcoal skin, and a badly kept goatee emerged from behind a long counter that was devoid of any merchandise. He had a shotgun in his dark hands.

  “He don’t look like a Corazones. And neither of you look hurt.”

  “Mateo Machado is my brother. We’re visiting.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “You’re Mateo’s sista?”

  I sighed my displeasure at being challenged. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

  He held out his visered hand. “Send me your ID.”

  I rolled my eyes with barrio attitude, as he would expect. Then I complied.

  “Okay, Mateo’s sister. You know the way?”

  “Basement of this place has a corridor that connects to the hospital basement, right? Mateo told me that much. How do we get upstairs once we’re there?”

  “There’s a service elevator for staff only. It’s got an antique turnkey access lock, but that doesn’t work anyway. Just call it by pressin’ the button. Who you lookin’ for?”

  “Kortilla Gonzales. She was hurt in a building collapse.”

  “They brought in a dozen from that. On the top floor.”

  “Gracias.”

  The pharmacy minder showed us the way to the basement, and we made our way from there. The tunnel was dark and dank, but it led us to where we needed to go. St. Barnabas’s basement was filled with leaking pipes, stank like the river, and the floors were stained with blood of the countless gang members who had come this way. The elevator might have been a century old, but it worked.

  The elevator stopped on each of the eight floors. Harried medical personnel crammed into and squeezed out of it at each stop. Nythan and I attracted wary looks, but that was it. They were probably accustomed to dangerous civilians traveling this way by now. I’m not sure what they made of us.

  The eighth floor was mayhem. Crying, moaning, and screaming assaulted my ears as I surveyed the despair around me. There were so many wounded in the hallways that the medical personnel could scarcely walk. Some of the patients had beds, most didn’t. Wives cradled husbands, fathers held children, while others suffered alone. And these were the lucky ones. At least they were inside, and someone was trying to help them, even if the task was overwhelming.

  I willed myself to stop seeing the pain and focus on what I had to do. It was a runner’s trait. The conditions were just tougher here.

  Nythan stuck out, as he did everywhere, and people stared at us. There was little else for them to do but look and wait. For a miracle. For something.

  A woman with blood-covered palms grabbed his leg. “Please, Doctor, my daughter’s leg, it won’t stop bleeding. No matter what I do, it won’t stop.”

  Nythan’s eyes fixed on an unconscious girl no older than ten. I couldn’t see her injury because of the bloody cloth over her leg, but crimson was everywhere. Nythan’s eyes flashed something desperate and tender—he bent over to try to
help.

  I grabbed his arm and yanked him. “He’s not a doctor. I’m sorry. There’s nothing he can do.” Living in the barrio was hard.

  I squeezed his arm as we walked. “You aren’t a doctor. And we don’t have time to try to save people one wounded girl at a time.” I was disappointed in the harshness of my voice.

  We kept walking; people kept looking. There was whispering. Maybe a few of the patients recognized me. I peered inside a room that held two beds but a dozen patients. We kept walking. I spotted an occasional nurse, but there was nowhere near enough staff.

  My heart skipped when I finally caught sight of Kortilla’s mother. She poked her head out of a doorway not five feet from where I was standing. There was a weariness in her eyes I’d not seen before. I knew she was searching for medical staff, someone to help. The same as everyone else. Her eyes passed over me the first time—they hunted only for someone wearing the powder blue uniforms of the St. Barnabas staff, but they soon returned. Elena blinked, not believing what she saw. I’d already made my way over to her by the time she accepted that I wasn’t a hallucination.

  “Daniela!” She grabbed me with such a ferocious hug I almost fell. “Ah, my prayers. You have come in answer to my prayers.”

  I was the answer to no one’s prayers. Still, the illusion warmed me, if only for a moment.

  “Where is Kortilla?” Elena still hadn’t released me.

  “Inside, inside.” To Nythan, she said, “It is good to see even you.”

  We found Kortilla squeezed in next to her younger brother, Otega, on one of the room’s two beds. She had a bandage wrapped around her forehead. A bit of blood had soaked through. Otega’s right leg and arm were encased in silver emergency wraps—the kind that came in first aid kits. Sweat rolled down his forehead; his blood-laced eyes looked at me but didn’t seem to quite see. As I came up beside her bed, Kortilla’s eyes opened slowly.

  “A dream, or is it my Dee?”

  “And me,” Nythan chirped with forced joviality.

  “How are you, hermana?” With a nervous look beside her, I added, “What’s wrong with Otega?”

  “The building came down. The Authority hit it. They must’ve known… known your brother and some of the other leaders were in the basement.”

  It was always Mateo. Destruction followed him. Or perhaps he stalked it.

  “Where is your dad and Matias?” I spoke the words, but I already knew the answer.

  “Somewhere else… they took them away with M-Mateo,” Kortilla said. “No one knows where.” Elena crossed her chest as Kortilla spoke. I envied her faith in that moment. I hoped it brought her more comfort than I felt.

  “What does Otega need?” I asked Kortilla’s mother.

  She shook her head. “He’s delirious. Someone gave him those wraps when we came in, said they’d be back, but I don’t even remember when that was. He’s burning up.”

  Nythan had already slid around to the other side of the bed. “It looks like he’s lost a lot of blood. There might be an infection setting in. Antibiotics and a blood regenerator, perhaps.”

  “Dee, we need to find Papa and Matias, and Mateo.”

  I locked my jaw. The truth wasn’t going to help her, but I had no choice. Kortilla could see inside me.

  “What? What happened to them?” She tried to rise. Her mother and I pushed her back onto the bed.

  “Rest, Kortilla. I’m going to get you and Otega some help.”

  “Where is my father, Dee? And my brother. Tell me now.”

  Nythan’s eyes met mine. He shook his head ever so slightly in the negative.

  “You think I can’t see that crap, gringo?” Kortilla snapped. “Daniela, imagine if you were lying here. Tell me.”

  My throat was dry, the words difficult. “They’ve been taken to detention. To Fishkill.”

  “Says who?”

  “Nacho.”

  “He’s a worm.”

  I wrapped my hand around hers. “He wasn’t lying. I’d know. I’m going to get them out.”

  “You and Nythan?” She sounded more incredulous than she should have. “There are hundreds of soldiers there, fences, drones.”

  “I will not let you down.”

  “Ping Jalen. He’ll help,” Kortilla urged.

  Nythan’s voice was firm. “No.”

  Kortilla frowned. “Listen, Nythan, I know you boys have a little rivalry, but this isn’t about you and—”

  “I wouldn’t play silly games with your family, Kortilla. It’s just that there is more going on here than some barrio folks getting locked up in a detention center. The assassinations, the weapons… there are strange buildings being sent into Bronx City by hydroTran. The Authority is rounding people up rather than using correction—a reversal of a decade of policy. Prison is inefficient and expensive, they always said. And they only seem to want healthy prisoners. Something big is going on. It’s all connected. We need to be smart. I’m sorry, Kortilla, but Jalen doesn’t give a crap about what happens to the people in Bronx City. You aren’t highborn. His only interest is in the game of power going on in Manhattan. Trying to get him involved is going to make it worse.”

  I studied Nythan carefully, weighing his words. I remembered Jalen’s contempt all too well. The highborn were meant to rule, he said. He wanted vengeance for his mother, that was all. I couldn’t really think of what he could do anyway. Money wasn’t going to get Mateo and Matias and the rest of them out of Fishkill. Not now.

  “I think Nythan’s right on this one, Kortilla.”

  “If Jalen can’t help, what do you suggest, Nythan?” she asked.

  Nythan was quiet. Too quiet. “I’m not sure yet,” he said finally.

  “Not good enough,” I snapped at him. “Let’s see that mind you’re always bragging about come up with something. Or we do it my way.”

  “Dee, you’ve got to be careful. We still don’t fully understand the consequences of using”—he glanced around the crowded room—“your gifts. You could be killing yourself or driving yourself mad.”

  “I can handle it, Nythan. We’re running out of time. Tell me a better way. But we’re getting them out.”

  “A fool rushes in, Daniela. We need to plan to win a war, not a battle.”

  I flushed. He sounded like Alexander.

  “Do you have that plan or not?”

  His eyes shifted to Kortilla, lingering on her bandaged head. “Yes.”

  “Tell me.”

  “As I said, we need to understand first, then hit hard. We need to find out what the Authority has planned at Fishkill. We need to know what the purpose of those prefabs is. That’s the key to this.”

  I considered his words. “How do we do that without breaking in to the facility?”

  Nythan shook his head, the hint of a smile curling at the edge of his lips. “We don’t need to go into Fishkill. We just need to see what’s inside one of those trucks.”

  I frowned. “They’re driverless, but they still might be guarded if they are valuable. And there are the drones.”

  The nascent grin didn’t fade. “We’ll need some help. But like I said, I’ve got a plan.”

  He turned his attention to Kortilla, placing a gentle hand on her arm. She didn’t protest. “I know someone who can get you meds and help us get everyone out of Fishkill. Help is on the way. I promise.”

  We found Gandy hanging around the maze with a few other Trinitarios. He wasn’t thrilled about getting off his rear to bring us to his boss, but he knew he didn’t have much choice—Nythan insisted, and Jefe Black had said Nythan was blood. Nobody messed with Jefe Black’s blood, not in the maze.

  Gandy brought us into a section of the third floor that was restricted for Trinitarios. I’d never been in there and neither had anyone else I knew. It wasn’t much: some beat-up furniture; a couple of unmade cots; and a sparkling wall screen that displayed looping, color-enhanced scenes from Hispaniola. Behind the lounge was a back room with a torn curtain. Gandy pulled it back t
o reveal a durasteel door. He tapped it twice with a metal rod hanging beside the door. Nothing happened.

  “C’mon, avacho!” Gandy yelled. He hit the metal barrier with his fist, followed by a painful wince. The door moved.

  Another tattooed ruffian appeared through the partially open doorway, his clothes hanging off a lean frame, his eyes bloody. A wicked-looking handgun was clutched in his right hand. Gandy conferred in Barriola with his compatriot. I couldn’t make out much, except for the name Anahi—Jefe Black’s sister. Eventually the door opened all the way and Gandy led us past the unhappy-looking minder.

  I realized we were leaving the maze and entering an adjacent building. We stepped into what looked like a showroom of random merchandise: screens, fabricators, furniture, boxes of visers, and even several oil paintings lay scattered about the huge space. Some items looked as if they had just arrived, others were covered in dust.

  “Anise’s dad might be interested in some of this stuff,” Nythan quipped.

  Gandy craned his head back. “This is the boss’s cut. You best keep your hands to yourself, corpse-man. Blood or not.”

  We were led up a flight of stairs into a hallway with real wood floors so clean I could see my reflection. Paintings of ancient battlefields hung from the walls. Crystal chandeliers glittered above us. They reminded me of the headmaster’s residence near Tuck.

  “Welcome, my friends,” came the deep voice from inside a room at the end of the hall.

  We followed the voice. Jefe Black sat at the head of a long dining room table lined with sixteen high-backed carved wood chairs, a gigantic portrait of George Washington crossing a frozen river at his back. So noble he looked highborn. A massive bowl of real fruit—apples, bananas, oranges, and grapes—sat in the middle of the table. They were so beautiful they almost didn’t look real. I got the message: this was the domain of a king. Show respect.

  The chief of the Trinitarios rose to greet us. He resembled a tank—thick and hard, with a face of sharp angles. More Napoleon than Washington in height and build. He had a metal pipe in his hand rather than a scepter.