by Dan Wells
“Now!” shouted Fang, and the comm channel filled with the sounds of gunfire, swooshing magical effects, and the sharp clangs of the Katana powerset. Marisa watched her teammates’ health bars move wildly up and down, while still keeping a wary eye on the rooftops.
“Enemy down!” roared the announcer.
“Ally down!”
“Enemy down!”
“Tā mā de!” yelled Fang, her icon transforming to a pale skull. “I almost got away.”
“We’re lucky you’re the only one who died,” said Sahara, regrouping with Jaya as the enemy icons retreated out of view. “They had all five agents down here.”
“A two-for-one trade isn’t bad,” said Jaya. “Heartbeat, Happy, we scared them back up to you.”
“Roger that,” said Marisa. “Time to stop shooting, Anja.”
Anja kept firing. “But I didn’t kill it yet.”
“But now they’re all back, and they’ll see you.”
Anja grinned wickedly, still staring through her scope and firing shot after shot into the enemy turret. “Good thing I have a Spotter.”
Marisa saw the three remaining enemy agents run past one of her recon drones. “You have a Spotter who isn’t designed for melee. We’re about to get crushed.”
“Pull back,” said Sahara, “we can’t get to you in time to defend you.”
“Keep shooting,” said Anja sternly, in a broad parody of Sahara’s voice.
“Incoming,” said Marisa softly, and pulled out her handguns. She’d paired the Control Tech powerset with Ranged Light, giving her a pair of Stahri laser pistols with a handful of variable settings; she set them to Armor Piercing, braced herself for the onslaught, and started firing as soon as the first enemy agent appeared on the opposite roof. She landed a few clear shots when suddenly her recon drone sounded a proximity alarm, and she barely had time to turn around before she was hit by an attack from behind. The agent on the other roof had been a decoy, drawing her attention while the two other agents flanked her. Marisa screamed a war cry, dodging and firing with every ounce of skill she could muster, but it was too much. She whittled one of the agents almost all the way to zero before finally succumbing to their attack, and Anja was dead soon after.
Marisa appeared in the lobby room, waiting for her respawn timer to hit zero. Fang was already there, dressed in a steampunk avatar she’d been refining for the last few weeks; she was laughing uncontrollably.
Marisa raised her eyebrow. “You think that’s funny?”
Anja appeared beside them, grinning from ear to ear. “That was awesome! I got it down almost seventy-five percent, completely on my own, from so far away their defenses were useless. They couldn’t do anything about it!”
Fang nodded toward Anja, keeping her eyes on Marisa. “Yeah, I think that’s pretty funny.”
Marisa rolled her eyes at Anja. “You realize we died, right?”
“We died because we were unprepared,” said Anja eagerly. “Imagine if you were built for defense, like with the force shield or something, or maybe crowd control to lock them down so they couldn’t hurt me. I could probably drop a whole turret and still get away! Maybe!”
“This is why I work alone,” said Fang with a smirk. “I don’t know how you ever keep her alive.”
“It’s harder than usual these days,” said Marisa. “You hear about last night?”
Anja’s excitement didn’t even dim. “Yes! Last night was awesome, too!”
Marisa ignored her. “You’ve heard of Bluescreen?”
Fang shook her head.
“Some new digital thing, like a sensovid but super intense. Seems to be LA only.” Marisa gestured at Anja. “HappyFluffy-SparkleTime here took a dose and passed out.”
“You’re supposed to pass out,” said Anja. “That’s the point.”
“Why would anyone want to pass out?” asked Fang.
Anja twisted her face into a mask of confusion. “What, do I have to defend the entire concept of recreational drugs now?”
“Yes, actually,” said Marisa, “except don’t, because that’s crazy.”
“Funny,” said Anja, “because ‘that’s crazy’ was pretty much my whole defense.” She looked at Fang. “It did suck, though, because I got grounded.”
“Speaking of which,” said Fang, “my respawn timer’s almost up. Cherry Dogs forever.”
“Cherry Dogs forever,” said Marisa and Anja. Fang disappeared back into the game.
“Okay,” said Anja. “I know I kind of scared you last night, so I want to make it up to you. Let’s go dancing.”
“I thought you were grounded.”
Anja dismissed the concern with a wave. “Please. My dad’s in meetings all night, and if I can’t trick my way past the house computer, I don’t deserve to go dancing.”
Marisa grinned slyly. “I’ve got a new trick for that: instead of cycling your ID in your room, spoof it to a laundry nuli; that way if he checks it on GPS it’ll look like you’re moving around. Much more convincing.”
“Ooh, I like that.”
Marisa glanced at her respawn timer; it was almost done. “You got a specific club in mind?”
“It’s called Ripcord; I’ll send you the address after practice. Cherry Dogs forever.”
“Cherry Dogs forever.”
Marisa’s parents were still nervous about La Sesenta, telling all their children to stay safely at home, but they couldn’t afford to keep the restaurant closed forever. With them gone it was easy to sneak out, and Marisa took the extra time to help Gabi sneak out to catch a make-up ballet class, turning her younger sister’s bitter rage almost instantly to undying gratitude. Marisa ordered her a prepaid autocab to get home, the address already programmed in, and made her way downtown to meet her friends.
Ripcord turned out to be a tall brick building near USC, wedged between two office buildings and partly covered with ivy; someone had carefully groomed the ivy to reach up in a reverse lightning pattern, which probably looked cool during the day, but at night it was completely upstaged by the four rows of narrow windows, each flashing a different bright color in patterns that alternated between cascades, starbursts, and utter chaos. The line to get in was long, and the enormous bouncer watching the door had replaced both of his arms with heavy-duty bionics—the kind with massive hydraulic pistons that made his arms look like a pair of gleaming motorcycle engines. He looked like he could crush boulders with his hands, and he stood tall enough that Marisa suspected his legs were bionic as well. She stepped out of the autocab and smoothed her dress—the same glittery green one she’d worn last night, since she’d never had the chance to show it off properly. Every business on the street immediately offered her discounts and adlinks, flashing on the periphery of her djinni display, but she brushed them off and changed her settings to keep her display clear of offers. She searched for Sahara’s cameras, but the air was so full of nulis it was impossible to tell in the dark which ones were which. Marisa figured most of the nulis were probably from neighboring businesses, and as if to prove her point she was instantly swarmed by three of them: two hovering screens, each advertising some exciting new clothing store, and a waiter drone from a yakitori place offering her a free sample of spicy roast chicken. The pungent smell filled her nostrils enticingly, but she waved them all off. It wouldn’t do to start the evening with a soy sauce stain on her dress.
Marisa opened the friends list on her djinni and found Sahara and Anja’s names glowing brighter than the rest; they were close. She blinked on the track function, and a line appeared in her vision, shooting off through the crowd—she followed it to a point about halfway through the line, and joined the girls with a smile. Cameron and Camilla hovered nearby, but Bao was nowhere in sight. “No boys?” she asked.
“Bao had to work,” said Sahara. She was wearing a short pink dress with a loose neckline that plunged almost to her navel. It looked as if any fast movements would make it downright scandalous, which was undoubtedly the purpose. The me
n waiting in line were only barely concealing their stares, but Sahara only had eyes for the women. “Omar said he had something, too,” Sahara continued, scanning the crowd as she talked, “but he was kind of vague about it. He always is.” She caught another girl’s eye and smiled.
“He’s probably hanging out with my father,” said Anja, rolling her eyes. “They’re getting along even better since he ‘saved’ me last night.” She was dressed in what looked like a long black T-shirt with a giant white wolf on the front, buried under several layers of sheer black mesh that extended down into a puffy skirt, and up into a see-through hood framing her blond hair. She looked like a goth Red Riding Hood, with a rattan basket-weave purse to complete the image.
Marisa nodded, looking around at the crowd. Omar could be anywhere, but if Bao was “working” that meant he was downtown somewhere, probably in a crowd like this one, skimming micropayments from tourists’ credit accounts. His mother had a job, but his stepfather had been out of work for over a year, and the only way to feed all five of them—Bao, his parents, and his twin stepsisters—was to supplement his mom’s wages with whatever he could lift on the side. Marisa had offered to help him before, but just like Chuy he’d been too proud to accept it.
Marisa thought again about Chuy and his tiny apartment, and looked at the people in line self-consciously. Even this street, now that she took the time to look at anything other than the glowing, ostentatious building, was littered with garbage, and she could see here and there silhouettes of the homeless in the shadows. Watching. She wanted to give them something, but what? She hadn’t carried cash in years. Did they have djinnis and credit accounts?
How did they even live?
Deep bass music shook the pavement, and Marisa closed her eyes.
“Now that you’re here,” said Anja, “let me see if I can get us in early.” She pushed herself to the front of the line and chatted with the half-tech bouncer; Marisa took a moment to admire the boys in line with them, and smiled to herself. The pickings looked good. A minute later Marisa and Sahara both got a ping from Anja, telling them to come forward, and the bionic bouncer stepped aside to pass them through.
“Welcome to Ripcord, ladies.”
Cameron swirled around to get a shot of the bouncer as the girls passed, and they walked through the door into a neon volcano of bodies and sound.
“How much did you have to pay him?” asked Marisa, practically shouting to be heard over the pounding music.
“Pay him?” asked Anja with a laugh. “I just pointed at Sahara’s dress and let his business sense do the talking. Those guys in line outside will wait hours to get in and try to pick us up.”
The club was packed with people, dancing on the open floors or crowded around the circular bars that rose up like glowing blue trees. The ceiling rippled with a pattern of dark blue circles, shifting and interlocking like unpoppable bubbles, and here and there a thick oval pillar shimmered with a coruscation of otherworldly green. Even the floor seemed to glow, faint lights tracing waves under their feet, and as the girls pushed their way through the crowd Marisa couldn’t tell if the lines were moving, or if it was just an optical illusion.
A raised stage bulged out from one wall, the same bulbous shape as the glowing bars, and an Aidoru band was projected there in full 3D, playing a variety of impossible instruments synced almost flawlessly to the music. It was Kopo music, of course, a kind of Korean/African fusion that had gripped the LA scene for nearly three months, drums and bass and synthesizers creating a seamless wall of dance-hall techno; Marisa started moving in time to the familiar rhythms, dancing almost unconsciously as they made their way across the floor. Her dress glittered, catching the blue and purple lights from the ceiling and refracting it into a riot of rainbow colors. A tall Chinese boy caught her eye and danced toward her, dressed in black jeans and a cowboy shirt that seemed to shimmer in the light. Marisa smiled back slyly, signaling a quick I’ll catch up with you later to Anja and Sahara. She danced with the boy for a moment before moving deeper into the crowd, eager to explore all her options before spending too much time with any one guy. They were barely into the second song of the night when Sahara pinged her with a single, wordless photo: Sahara and Anja, on a plush red couch, sitting with the man they’d glimpsed leaving Anja’s house the night before. He was even more gorgeous than Marisa remembered, but she couldn’t help but scowl. Hadn’t Anja said that was her dealer? There was no way Marisa was letting her buy more Bluescreen.
Marisa left the dance floor immediately, wiggling her fingers in a flirty farewell to the muscly Mexican boy she’d been dancing with. She blinked her tracker back on, and followed the ethereal line through the dancing crowd to a small cluster of furniture in the corner. The handsome stranger sat between the two girls, dressed in cream-colored pants and a red jodhpuri suit accented with burnished brass buttons. He looked maybe twenty years old, his hair a dark brown mess of calculated chaos, his stubbled chin strong and narrow, his slim nose as sharp as an axe. He smiled up at Marisa as she approached, the corner of his mouth wrinkling in a kind of boundless confidence. Rich trash, thought Marisa. It was people like him that were bleeding the rest of the city dry. She smoothed her dress and sat demurely on a plush red chair opposite the couch, crossing her legs and smiling back with a nonchalance she’d spent hours perfecting in her bedroom mirror.
“Saif,” said Anja, “this is our friend Marisa. Marisa, this is Saif.”
Cameron buzzed idly overhead, probably looking for a good vantage point to perch on, but Camilla was resting silently on the Synestheme table between them, soaking up as much of the conversation as her speakers could pick up in the noisy club.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” said Saif, nodding politely. He smiled again. “Didn’t I see you last night at Anja’s house?”
A message from Sahara popped up in the corner of Marisa’s eye: He didn’t say that to me.
Marisa faked a smile. “Was that you? I wasn’t really paying attention.” She stole a glance at his cheekbone, trying not to stare, then hid the glance by tracking her eyes all the way down to the Synestheme, touching the screen to call up the drink menu. She knew she should stay polite, but couldn’t stop herself from making at least one subtle jab. “You had the car, right? The Daimyo? I hope it didn’t drive you here—a car that expensive makes a tempting target in a neighborhood like this.”
“You have a good eye for cars. Don’t worry, though—a Daimyo can defend itself pretty well.” He grinned. “Any of those bums outside try to mess with it, they’ll get a surprise.”
Marisa wanted to smack him, but instead laughed as fakely as she could. “Ha, ha! Stupid poor people.”
Another message from Sahara popped up in Marisa’s vision: What the what? I thought you liked this guy.
Not as much as I like laughing at poor people, Marisa sent back. Ha ha!
Saif looked at her a moment, like he was trying to decipher her attitude. After a moment he smiled again, and gestured at the menu screen with as much authority as if he owned the club. “Where are my manners? Please, ladies, have a drink, it’s all on me.”
“Just Lift for me,” said Sahara.
“Order a real drink if you want one,” said Saif with a laugh, “I’m not going to narc on you.”
Sahara smiled warmly, as if this was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her. “Maybe later.”
“Bubble tea,” said Anja. “Lychee if they’ve got it.”
Marisa looked at the menu. “Looks like strawberry, honeydew, mango, rose, and taro.” She tapped one. “Mango for me.”
“Rose, then,” said Anja, and tapped Saif lightly on the knee. Marisa looked at the gesture, lingering just slightly longer than necessary on the boy’s leg, and wondered if Anja was . . . perusing the menu, to use her own metaphor.
Marisa sent her a quick message: Are you after him or his drugs?
He’s all yours, Anja sent back.
That’s not what I meant, sent Marisa. Why
did everyone think she was chasing this bastard?
This gorgeous, gorgeous bastard.
Saif smiled, a kind of self-deprecating smirk that said I should be embarrassed, but I’m too damn proud of myself. The sheer confidence of it made Marisa want to gag. “You’re going to laugh at me,” he said, already chuckling at himself. “I’ve got a sweet tooth like you wouldn’t believe, and that prompts some, shall we say, rather childish drink orders.” He jerked his chin at the menu screen. “Order me a Candy Apple.”
Marisa raised her eyebrow as she searched the menu. “I’ve never even heard of a Candy Apple.”
“Apple juice and butterscotch schnapps,” said Saif. “It’s every bit as thick and sugary as it sounds, and if they had it I’d add caramel syrup.”
“You weren’t kidding about the sweet tooth.” Marisa sent the order, and a payment icon popped up on each of their djinnis; Saif grabbed it first, paying for the drinks with a single blink before leaning back into the curved red couch. Marisa forced herself to stay cool, looking anywhere but at Saif, and sent Anja another quick message: Please don’t buy any more Bluescreen.
Anja didn’t respond to that one.
“So what’s up with the nulis?” asked Saif, and Sahara began to explain her vidcast. Marisa watched his polite responses, eager and charming, and idly scanned his ID: Saif Roshan, living in LA on a student visa from India, studying business at USC. There was an odd glitch in the data, probably from an aftermarket edit. She’d done similar work on IDs herself, including Bao’s sisters, hiding certain legal information that they didn’t want public. Knowing that Saif had something to hide made him even more interesting than before, like a drop shadow on an image that made it pop out from the background. She wondered idly what it might be—a juvenile record? Unpaid fines somewhere? Nothing serious, or he couldn’t have gotten into USC.
I need to stop thinking about him, she told herself, and focused on the Synestheme again. She unspooled a long, white cord from the housing in the table, and when she plugged it into her headjack the music seemed to come to life around her, pulsing visibly in the air as the Synestheme interfaced with her djinni to blend all five senses together. She blinked up a few enhancements, feeling almost as if her body itself was merging with the music, and watched Saif as he smiled and murmured politely to Sahara’s ongoing monologue. A waiter nuli floated down to the table and deposited their drinks, and Marisa took a long, slow sip from her bubble tea; the mango was delicious, and the Synestheme interpreted the taste visually with a burst of subtle sparkles.
