by Dan Wells
She knew how to find out.
She looked at the clock: nearly one a.m. She should be asleep, or practicing in Overworld with Fang and Jaya. Anything but looking deeper into the drug that almost killed her friend.
She tapped the Bluescreen drive on the desk. She didn’t want to put it down.
“Screw it.”
She reached across the desk and dug her hotbox out of the back corner. It was an old computer, the kind of desktop model that was obsolete outside of the most traditional corporate offices, but she’d kept it upgraded, and it was every bit as fast as the newer, fancier machines that littered the desk around it. Most importantly, the hotbox was completely isolated, with no wired or wireless connections to any other computers or networks. It was the ideal environment for observing a suspicious piece of software without the threat of that software infecting any other systems. She used it often to examine various viruses she ran across in the wild. She connected a monitor and dug up her djinni adaptor, finding the short black cord that would allow a headjack drive to interface with a larger computer. She turned on the hotbox, let it boot, and plugged in the Bluescreen.
Marisa had designed the hotbox to watch everything that happened on itself, and report on it in real time. She tapped the screen, and watched the Bluescreen’s small downloader program reach out, searching for a djinni operating system, eventually settling for the hotbox’s own shell program. It offered to connect, and when the hotbox answered, the downloader responded with a massive dump of data—a hundred petabytes or more, all within the space of a few seconds. The hotbox hadn’t even agreed to a download, just the digital equivalent of a handshake, but instead of a friendly hand, it found itself holding, metaphorically, a thousand tons of unprocessed ore. The data poured through the connection protocol in an overwhelming flood, and Marisa’s fingers raced across the screen as she struggled to understand it.
Anja had said the Bluescreen was mostly junk data, and what Marisa was seeing seemed to be exactly that. None of it was organized or shaped in any way—no clips or fragments of larger data. It was the digital equivalent of gravel. The Bluescreen wasn’t even trying to store it, just shove it in the hotbox’s active memory. She wondered if maybe the speed was part of the purpose—a slower trickle probably wouldn’t overload a djinni properly, which explained why they had to sell the program in thumb drives instead of pushing it across the internet. She pored through the downloader code, looking for anything she might have missed—
—and then her monitor blinked off, just for a second, and came back on.
She tapped the screen, frowning. She’d built this hotbox herself, and knew it like the back of her own hand. She kept it scrubbed and ready for flawless performance in situations just like this. This sort of glitch could only have come from the Bluescreen. Was this the overload from the massive dump of junk data—what Anja said happened with human users—or was it something more? She disconnected the Bluescreen drive, and started a deep-level diagnostic of the hotbox operating files. After nearly an hour she found a possible culprit—a handful of unknown files in the root directory that she had never seen before. They didn’t seem to have altered the hotbox in any way she could detect, aside from just copying themselves onto the drive in the first place. How had they gotten there? How had they gotten past the firewall? The hotbox was equipped with some of the best antivirus software in the world; there was no way the Bluescreen could have gotten these files in. Yet there they sat.
Completely inert and, as near as she could tell, useless.
She isolated the Bluescreen files and tinkered with them a bit, trying to see if she could understand them, but they were written in Piller, a programming language she was only passingly familiar with. She could follow some of it, but not enough to really figure anything out. After another hour of study, just past three in the morning, she decided to ask for help. It was time to take this to the darknet.
Marisa locked the files down as securely as she could, going so far as to chop the more suspicious-looking ones in half, just to be sure, and copied some representative samples into a plain text file. Then she scrubbed the hotbox as thoroughly as possible, connected a clean drive, and copied the text file over. Working with malware like this always made her feel like she needed a hazmat suit, like in a contagious disease lab, and when she pulled out the thumb drive to transfer the files to her main computer she felt a fleeting, irrational urge to handle it with gloves. She connected to the internet and queried Lemnisca.te, a closed network of semilegal servers that was only accessible by direct link; it was like a separate internet, invitation-only, where the required invitation was being smart enough to find it in the first place. The darknets were the uncharted underbelly of the internet age, equal parts freeing and terrifying, and Marisa always treaded carefully when she ventured into them. There were monsters in the deep, and you never knew who you were going to find.
She opened one of the virus message boards and tapped out a post.
Cantina>>Forum>>Malware>>General
Heartbeat: Weird Djinni Code
Heartbeat: Anybody run across this before, or anything like it? It was trying to interface with my hotbox, but it’s designed for djinnis. I *think* that’s why the files weren’t recognized, but I’m not sure, because I can’t even tell what they do. Any ideas?
Heartbeat: FileAttach>>detoxdump
She posted the file, disconnected her computer, and finally went to sleep at nearly four in the morning. When she awoke, she found a handful of answers, most of them in English, most of them some variant of Learn Piller N00b! One response stood out, however, poorly translated from Portuguese:
Cantina>>Forum>>Malware>>General>>WeirdDjinniCode
Sobredoxis: Re:Re:Re:Weird Djinni Code
Sobredoxis: stop deleting my posts!! if you do not like, go to screw!! this remembers me of something I saw in Japan one time have you heard Dolly Girls??
Marisa refreshed the page, hoping to find something more recent, but when the page came back the response had disappeared. Someone was deleting Sobredoxis’s answers.
She wondered how many times it had been deleted, and who had done it.
What was really going on here?
SEVEN
You going in to school today?
Sahara’s message popped up in Marisa’s vision while she was downstairs eating breakfast: hot corn tortillas with salt and avocado. Marisa glanced at her abuela, bustling through the kitchen making more tortillas, not paying any attention. Sandro and Gabi and Pati were seated around the table as well, but they were all checking their own djinnis and ignoring her. Sandro looked neatly pressed, like he’d just ironed his shirt a few minutes ago; Gabi wore sweatpants and a T-shirt, almost certainly covering her leotard for first-period ballet. Pati was dressed like Marisa, in a ratty black T-shirt and ripped jeans; Marisa looked closer, seeing something familiar in the clothes, and realized that they didn’t just look like hers, they were hers: old stuff Marisa had worn when she was twelve, pulled out of a storage box somewhere in a back room. Had their mom given those clothes to her, or had Pati simply found them on her own? Marisa suppressed a laugh, and focused back on the message. She blinked once to start a message response to Sahara.
Not our school, she sent. You up for a trip?
You’re killing me, Mari, Sahara sent back. I’m failing three classes.
Marisa took another bite of hot tortilla, and blinked into Sahara’s video feed: she was wearing a pleated skirt and matching jacket in yellow plaid, with a white blouse and knee-high bobby socks—pure traditional, and as immaculate as always. She was sitting in front of a mirror, adding the final touches to her hair and makeup.
I analyzed that Bluescreen drive last night, Marisa wrote back. I think there’s a piece of malware in it, which means this is more than just a VR drug. I want to go see Anja.
Sahara took a while to respond; Marisa watched on the feed as Sahara carefully finished her eyeliner, then set down the pencil and blinked. If Anj
a knew anything else, she’d have told us by now. That run through the freeway scared her, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen Anja scared of anything.
It’s not what she knows, wrote Marisa, it’s what she’s got in her head—hang on, this is her.
A new message popped up in Marisa’s vision, in a second column next to the conversation with Sahara. Guten morgen.
Marisa blinked over to it. I’m on with Sahara right now. Patch you in?
Do it to it.
Marisa glanced at her abuela, needlessly worried that she’d somehow get suspicious of all the secret plotting, but all the old woman did was plop another stack of steaming hot tortillas on the table.
“Gracias, Abue,” said Pati brightly.
Their abuela’s headphones were in, and Marisa could hear the buzz from the blaring music—some old rock something from the turn of the century. Old people listened to weird stuff. Marisa waited for her to turn away, and sent a new message to the group.
I analyzed some Bluescreen in the hotbox last night, and it’s definitely malware. But it can’t interface with a regular computer, so it’s not doing whatever it normally does, and I’m not going to risk it in my djinni. I want to see what it’s doing in Anja’s.
There’s no way I’ve got a virus, sent Anja. I’ve got antivirus software for my antivirus software. You know some of the places I go online, there’s no way I’d leave myself open to malware.
Look for this, sent Marisa, and copied her a sample of the neutered malware code.
I’ve got to go to school, sent Sahara. My Chinese test is next week, and I’m not remotely ready for it. On the plus side, my school visits are one of my most popular segments.
Schoolgirl fetishists, sent Marisa.
How in the bright blue hell? sent Anja. That code you sent was part of a new file in my djinni’s main system folder. How’d that get in there?
Still working on that, sent Marisa. Current theory: the Bluescreen overloads your system, causes the shutdown, and this file slips through the cracks while you’re trying to reboot your security.
Then come help me get it out! sent Anja.
“That’s my bus,” said Pati, jumping up from the table at a sound only she could hear. Marisa looked up, murmured her good-bye along with the rest of the siblings, and blinked into Olaya’s shared schedule. The elementary was the only one with a bus, so Marisa and Sandro walked Gabi to junior high on their way to high school. Olaya’s schedule said they were due to leave in a minute and a half.
Can you look at her virus over the net? asked Sahara. I know you have a remote diagnostic program because I saw you use it on a boy you liked last month.
The Bluescreen file dump is too big, sent Marisa. That’s why they distribute it in thumb drives. The virus is small, but I don’t know what it’s going to do when I start poking it. I’d rather be there in person.
I’m sending you a cab, wrote Anja. It’ll bring you to my school. Tracking info on its way. An alert glowed yellow in the corner of Marisa’s eye, and when she accepted it the icon transformed into a small counter. Three minutes to pickup.
I’m out, sent Sahara. Keep me patched in, though, I want to hear what’s going on.
Another message appeared, from Fang this time. Anyone up for a game?
Sahara must have gotten the same message, because she merged it with the general conversation. Looks like we’re being responsible this morning, sorry.
Americans are so boring, sent Fang.
Bite your tongue, sent Anja, I’m German.
Same thing, said Fang. Come on, girls, we have a tournament to prepare for!
Practice is tonight, sent Sahara. Six p.m. our time, ten a.m. your time.
Hey Fang, sent Marisa, remembering a snippet of the mysterious message board post from the night before, have you ever heard of something called Dolly Girls? I think it’s a band or something; it’s from Japan.
So naturally the Chinese girl has heard of some obscure Japanese band, sent Fang, because all those Asian countries are pretty much the same anyway, right?
That’s not what I’m saying, sent Marisa, trying to decide if Fang was joking or actually offended. It was so hard to tell with her in writing.
Wait, said Anja, you just equated America and Germany, like, two seconds ago.
Your combined populations could fit in my apartment building, sent Fang. And on a slow day we might actually notice you.
I asked you because you’re way more into music than any of us are, sent Marisa. I didn’t mean to offend you.
I’m just screwing with you, sent Fang. Laolao, you know I love you. But no, I’ve never heard of them, why do you ask?
You heard about Anja? asked Marisa.
I told her, sent Sahara.
Sahara told me, sent Fang, half a second later. You need to lay off the creepy djinni drugs, girl.
Is that a real phrase? asked Anja. “Lay off”? That sounds super weird.
I dug through a sample of the drug and found a virus, sent Marisa. I can’t tell what it does, though, so I posted it on Lemnisca.te and a guy said he’d seen it before, and asked if I’d heard “Dolly Girls.” I have no idea what it means.
Maybe it’s an Aidoru band, sent Anja. Their hologram code might look similar to the way Bluescreen interfaces with a djinni’s sensory system.
“Time to go,” said Gabi, taking a final sip of orange juice as she stood up.
“Hasta luego, Abue,” said Marisa, jumping out of her seat. She grabbed her backpack, practically ripping one of the seams with her clumsy SuperYu hand—she’d gotten used to the lighter touch of the Jeon, and still made mistakes as she tried to adjust back to the older prosthetic. She kissed her abuela good-bye and followed Gabi out the door, with Sandro close behind.
Aidorus don’t really use a lot of sensory interfaces, sent Fang, just holograms. There might be a connection, but I doubt it.
Marisa waited on the curb while her siblings walked away; they only got a few steps before they noticed she wasn’t with them, and stopped to look back. Marisa smiled. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
Sandro rolled his eyes.
“Be safe,” said Gabi.
“Don’t worry about me,” said Marisa, “I’m just going to school with Anja today.”
They hesitated a moment, then turned and walked away. Marisa ran a quick net search for Dolly Girls while she waited for Anja’s cab, but the top links were either toys or porn. She closed the search in disgust—had that Brazilian dude really posted all those messages just to trick her onto a porn site? It wouldn’t be the weirdest thing that’d ever happened to her on the internet.
A message appeared from Bao. See you in history today? It was the only class they shared; she was two years ahead of him in math, and of course he was already fluent in Chinese. She told him about her plans with Anja. Be careful, he sent.
The cab arrived and Marisa climbed in, pursing her lips and thinking. Everyone kept telling her to be careful, but what was she really getting into? If the file she’d found in her hotbox actually was a virus, what were the people who made Bluescreen trying to do? What would she find when she studied the same file in Anja’s djinni?
“Good morning!” said the cab. Its voice was cheerful but hollow. “I have your destination already programmed. Would you like to visit a Starbucks on the way for a refreshing iced coffee?”
“No thanks,” said Marisa, “just go.”
“Starbucks has five convenient locations along our route, and the most modern fleet of nulis in Los Angeles. We won’t even have to stop.”
“No more ads,” said Marisa.
“Then let’s go!” said the cab, and pulled away from the curb. As soon as it got up to speed a message popped up from Anja; she’d probably been tracking the cab’s GPS. Now that you’re en route and stuck I can tell you: Omar’s here. He says hi. The message ended with a giant winking smiley face. Marisa rolled her eyes.
The cab pulled up at Anja’s private high school, and Mari
sa felt like she could feel the pretension rolling off the place in waves. Anja and Omar were waiting by the front gate; Omar climbed into the cab first, and Anja followed him in and sat in his lap. He was dressed as usual, in smart slacks and a dress shirt that seemed to hug the contours of his chest; Marisa wondered if he wore a size too small on purpose, just to show off his pecs. She tore her eyes away to look at Anja, who was wearing what looked like two halves of two different biking outfits: tight gray lycra pants crisscrossed with red lines and triangles, under a black-and-yellow jacket of slick, stippled leather. Against all odds, it looked pretty good.
“Good morning, Mari,” said Omar. His expression was darker than usual, his typical smarmy humor replaced by a grim resolve. “Thank you for saving Anja last night.”
“Holy crap yes,” said Anja. “And now you’re going to save me again!”
“Maybe,” said Marisa. She opened her backpack and pulled out a MoGan tablet and a djinni cable. “Plug in and we’ll take a look.”
“Whoa,” said Anja, grabbing Marisa’s metal wrist. “Back to the old SuperYu, huh?”
“The Jeon was thrashed.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Anja, and her eyes looked so sad Marisa couldn’t help but think of a guilty puppy, pleading for forgiveness. Marisa couldn’t think of anything to say, and after a moment Anja fished a slim white cable out of her cascade of blond hair. She pulled the cord around and offered it to Marisa, who clicked it into the port on her tablet and opened the file manager. Anja twisted her face into a guilty smirk. “Sorry I got you grounded too.”
Marisa shrugged, her fingers tapping the tablet’s screen. “Meh. As long as they think I’m in school right now there’s no real harm done. Sahara duped my ID signal for the day, so unless they do a visual check I should be fine.” She glanced at Omar, expecting some crack about “kids” getting grounded—as a college freshman he had much greater freedom, and never missed an opportunity to tease them about it. Today he said nothing.
Got your back, honey, wrote Sahara, the message bobbing lightly in Marisa’s peripheral vision. She was listening to everything they said, through the audio link in Marisa’s djinni, but couldn’t respond with voice while she was sitting in class. Marisa sent back a quick thanks.
