Rise of Order

Home - Part 1

RISE OF ORDER

An Age of Order Story

By Julian North

"There were a thousand voices talking, but no one was listening. There were a million promises made, but no deliverance. This nation was drowning in a sea of chaos. Violence, poverty, and injustice ruled our beloved land. But now there is order. And from this order, we shall forge a new nation, a better nation. Prosperity through order!" -President Arthus Ryan-Hayes, First State of the Union Address, Manhattan.

Darkness approached.

The v-copter raced eastward, as if fleeing the disappearing sun. Its massive propellers hurled us back toward the sprawling estates of Buckhead. It had been a long day, but I had no interest in going home.

The v-copter crew consisted of one pilot and one steward. The pilot was redundant-the machine flew on its own. Human assistance was only required in emergencies. The steward, however, was a busy man. His passengers were the demanding sort. They wanted the things they were accustomed to back home: comfortable temperature, proper humidity, refreshments of soil-grown fruits, stim-water. The badge on the steward's uniform said his name was Peter; his skin and accent made me suspect he'd been renamed by his employer to suit the sensibilities of the passengers.

There were five of us ensconced in plush leather seats in the rear of the aircraft. I sat closest to the cockpit, my long legs pulled onto the oversized swivel chair. This seat was the only thing I'd insisted on during the whole trip, because it was necessary for what I had to do. The chair, and getting to know the pilot.

Macey had mocked me for introducing myself to the crew when we got onboard. "Why are you always consorting with the help, Jenn?" she had asked after my first foray into the cockpit, just before we took off, not bothering to lower her voice. "I'm doing what I can to integrate you into society, but you aren't helping yourself. You just can't shake your father's roots, can you?" She had shaken her head with exaggerated gravity. The delicate strands of her perfectly straight silver hair shimmered like the ocean in sunlight when she moved her head, the glittering beams passing over that perfectly symmetrical face like a cresting wave. A magnificent platinum pendent that resembled a roughly cut ancient Chinese coin hung from her neck on a matching chain band. Elegant and striking, just like Macey.

I'd forced myself to giggle rather than growl, as if I thought she was funny. Of course, Macey's opening salvo was a signal for the rest of her gang to join in. They had-enthusiastically.

My three other dear classmates from the Wiggins School each possessed hair, faces, and bodies nearly as perfect as Macey's-Buckhead had an array of skilled alterators. My shoulders were a bit wider than the other girls', my legs a bit longer, my face not as symmetrical. My hair was a natural sand color rather some dazzlingly enhanced shade. I wouldn't have used a skin sculptor even if my father could have afforded one. To the crew, I'm sure we all looked alike: A bunch of rich North Atlanta girls traipsing about the country in Macey's dad's aircraft.

"Really, how much longer, Peter?" Macey complained, her voice like a hummingbird with a piece of wood stuck in its throat. She had a pair of sim-goggles on and spoke toward the ceiling.

"About twenty minutes, Ms. Freder," the steward told Macey a bit too quickly. I buried a grin behind my hand.

"Jenn, can you tell your friend up front to step on it," chimed the drawling voice of Wilma Morris. She had a glass of real orange juice in one hand and a plate of French cheeses in front of her. You look happy enough enjoying Macey's luxuries. That's what I wanted to say, but instead I smiled and forced another giggle. I hated the sound of myself.