by Dan Wells
“For a crowd, sure,” said Saif, “but that’s not going to work in an empty industrial park at night.”
“That all depends on which logo I use,” said Bao, and took the hat back from him, pressing the button inside it again. It flipped through a dozen or so logos, most of which Marisa recognized as local megacorps, and then stopped on Los Angeles Department of Water Conservation. “Ideally no one will approach me at all, but if anyone does I can tell them I’m checking the sprinkler system. Now, I only have one outfit, but your faces are anathema anyway, right? You stay by the taco stand; I’ll go check it out and report back.”
“You said your hat has a camera?” asked Marisa.
“Yeah, but this is the best logo for this situation—”
“I don’t want you to change it, I want you to patch your camera to your phone, and send me the signal.”
“But your djinni is off,” said Saif.
“Crap,” said Marisa, smacking her forhead. “I’m so used to having it; this is the worst.”
“I have a tablet,” said Saif, pulling a MoGan from his pocket. “Can we link it to this?”
Marisa took it, examining the slim rectangle. It was the same model as Omar’s, and she couldn’t help but shake her head. “Let me guess: you just use it for the speaker?”
“Yeah,” said Saif, furrowing his brow. “How’d you know?”
“Because all you rich boys are the same,” she said. “Bao, I can disable the ID on this MoGan and set up an ad hoc network with your phone. If we go a safe distance from the strip mall, there won’t be any storefronts to track our signal, and we should be completely undetectable.”
“We’re almost there,” said Bao, handing her the phone and hat. “Work quickly.”
Marisa fiddled with the devices until she found a way to link them with a hard line; the hat seemed adamantly opposed to any form of wireless communication. For good measure she patched in the microphone as well, and then linked them all to Saif’s tablet on a private, short-range network. The autocab let them out at the strip mall, a small stretch of busy shops and restaurants on the edge of a large industrial park. It looked like it contained many more complexes than just the Donato Center. They walked a quarter mile to find the right fence, hoping no one at the strip mall had paid enough attention to recognize them, and Bao set off to find the gate. Marisa hesitated a moment, staring at the tablet, then went online with it and created a dummy account in a chat program. She called the account Zora582, Sahara’s first-ever account name in Overworld, and used it to send Sahara a message.
“What are you doing?” asked Saif.
“Building a backup plan while Bao gets into position,” said Marisa. A response popped up from Sahara, and Marisa held up her finger. “Hang on a sec.” She opened the message.
You’re back online, wrote Sahara. Are you crazy?
My djinni’s still off, Marisa typed back. This is a tablet, far away from any ID readers. We’re spying on Saif’s supplier, and I need your help.
For what?
I want a nuli to follow the supplier. Look for something called the Donato Center.
Okay, sent Sahara. Aaaaaaaand . . . got it. And I’ve got Fang as well, I’ll patch her in.
Hey Mari, sent Fang. You’re having one hell of a day, aren’t you?
There’s a strip mall nearby with a bunch of fast food places, sent Marisa. I saw at least one that had delivery nulis. See if you can commandeer one of them for us to boss around.
Heh, sent Sahara. That’s ironic.
Don’t remind me. Marisa sent the final message to Sahara and looked up at Saif. “You doing okay?”
He touched his face. “I’ve been hit harder that that, believe it or not.”
“I don’t mean that,” said Marisa, though she couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt—not just for having hurt him, but for knowing that he’d been hurt before. She inched closer. “I mean Bluescreen,” she said. “Being betrayed like that; being controlled. That’s . . . got to hurt a lot more than just a punch.”
Saif’s eyes twinkled with mischief, barely visible in the darkness. “That was ‘just a punch,’ huh? I’d hate to see what happens when you really attack someone.”
“I’ve got them,” said Bao, his voice whispering from the mic connection on the table. Marisa connected the audio to the chat program, so Sahara and Fang could listen in as well. “I’m about three buildings away,” said Bao. “Video feed coming now.” They waited, and after a moment a grainy, black-and-white image appeared on the screen. She saw a small car, she couldn’t tell what model, with a man leaning against it, but the image was so poor she couldn’t see what he was wearing, let alone what he looked like.
Another car pulled up in front of it, head-to-head. Marisa heard a click and a moment of static, and the newcomer spoke.
“Kindred!”
“Gomez!” said the first man. They shook hands, and one of them said something Marisa couldn’t quite make out.
“I missed that last part,” she said.
“I’m trying to get closer,” said Bao, and the image shook wildly as he walked forward.
That’s going to make me seasick, sent Fang.
“Don’t go too far,” said Marisa, “the network on this tablet only reaches out a hundred meters or so.”
I’m working on that nuli, sent Sahara. Fang, can you run interference?
On it, sent Fang.
Kindred opened his trunk and pulled out a bag. Gomez held up a bag of his own, and the two men traded.
Marisa nodded. “Bluescreen drives in exchange for . . . I have no idea. Dinner, maybe? What would you hand to a drug dealer?”
“It’s cash,” said Saif.
“You’re kidding,” said Marisa. “Who uses cash?”
“It’s the only way to keep a transaction private,” said Saif. “If we pay in credits, suddenly the banks know where the money came from, and where it’s going, and even where we were standing when we exchanged it—digital currency has a trail you can never erase.”
“Makes sense,” said Marisa.
“I started hitting that new neighborhood today,” said Gomez. “It worked out pretty well.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Kindred. “Lal says to make sure you lay low; we can’t afford to attract any attention right now.”
“What’s going on?” asked Gomez.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Kindred. “Keep selling, but stay out of trouble.”
“Who’s Lal?” asked Marisa.
“Never heard of him,” said Saif.
“They’re expanding their territory,” Marisa murmured. “Which new neighborhoods are they moving into? Beverly Hills?”
“Probably,” said Saif.
“Wouldn’t they already be there?” asked Marisa. “Why would they be in Brentwood and not Beverly Hills?”
“I . . . don’t know. Look, they’re leaving.”
Gomez took the bag of drives and walked back to his car. Kindred went to his, and both vehicles started moving.
They’re leaving, sent Marisa. Do you have that nuli yet?
We’re working on it, sent Sahara.
We’re going to lose him, sent Marisa.
“They’re coming toward me,” said Bao. “I’m going to hide and wait for both cars to leave the Center.” His video and audio feeds shut off, and the tablet screen went blank.
Mari, sent Sahara, we need the Goblins.
I’m not on my djinni, sent Marisa. I don’t have them.
“We’ve got to hide,” said Saif.
We’re not going to make it in time, sent Sahara.
“He’s coming toward us,” said Saif. “Come on!”
Go! sent Sahara. Saif grabbed Marisa’s hand and sprinted back toward the strip mall. She turned off the tablet as she ran, just in case one of the storefronts managed to read a useful ID from it. They reached the first restaurant, a crowded neon diner called Taco Riendo, and Saif put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close and hid
ing their faces from the road, facing the window as if they were reading a menu. Marisa longed to know what was happening—had they gotten away cleanly? Had Bao been seen? Had Sahara hacked the nuli in time, or had Kindred gotten away?
“Here he comes,” said Saif, and he leaned in closer; she smelled his sweat from the run and his blood from the wound on his face; she felt the faint rasp of his stubbled chin on her cheek, like a thrill of electricity. Her breath caught in her throat, and suddenly it felt impossible to think about anything but the heat of his body. He pointed to the window, and Marisa forced herself to look at a reflection in the brightly lit glass: the street behind them, and the warped outline of Kindred’s car as it slid by on the road. Marisa waited, motionless in the curve of his arm, trying to concentrate on the car instead of him, and only when the car moved completely past them did she dare to turn her head and watch as it drove away, past the strip mall and into the city . . .
. . . and right then, in the final second, a small nuli flew out from the fast food place and followed the car, a tiny glowing dot in the neon sky.
“Got him,” she breathed, and gripped Saif’s arm in triumph.
Saif shook his head in disbelief. “You stole a nuli from a restaurant and tailed a drug dealer with it, all in . . . what was that, five minutes?”
“I think four,” said Marisa, smiling from ear to ear. “I didn’t think we’d make it.” She made a fist and pumped it forcefully. “Cherry Dogs!”
“I didn’t even think that was possible,” said Saif. Marisa turned back from the street, looking at him, and found him staring at her, considering her with a face he hadn’t used before. He was impressed, and . . . something else she couldn’t pin down. It made her heart beat faster, and she looked away. He spoke again, softly. “What else can you do, Marisa Carneseca?”
She slowly turned back toward him, doing everything she could to maintain her cool. “Didn’t I tell you? I’m amazing in every reality.”
“I think . . .” He paused. “I think you’re one of the only people I’ve ever met who could say that and not sound arrogant.”
Marisa felt like she didn’t know how to respond, though when she finally spoke it seemed obvious, and she didn’t know what had seemed so complicated. “Thanks.” She looked back at the restaurant window, on the verge of asking him to step inside for a drink, but her eyes lit on a clock and she cursed. “Ten thirty? I’ve got to go.”
“This early?”
“My parents’ restaurant closes in half an hour, and about a half hour after that they’ll get home. If I’m not in my room dutifully doing homework, they’re going to disassemble me one cybernetic implant at a time.” She held up her SuperYu arm, and realized he’d never even mentioned the loss of the fancier Jeon he’d seen in the club. She licked her lips, trying to think of what to do next. “Do you have somewhere to go?”
“I’ll be fine,” he said, “but I’ll also be disconnected. If we’re going to meet again we have to plan it now.”
“I thought you didn’t want to meet again,” she said, feeling the tiniest flutter in her stomach. “I thought it was tonight and then done.”
“That was before I saw you in action,” he said. “I can’t help but think that . . . I want to ask you something.”
“What?”
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Give me some time to think this through.”
She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “What is it? What’s going on?”
“Tomorrow,” he said again. “Somewhere new—we can’t go back to that VR parlor.”
“Tomorrow,” she said slowly, then shook her head. “No—the day after. If I slip out like this too many days in a row, my parents are going to have an aneurysm.”
Saif smiled. “Just one aneurysm between them?”
“They share everything.”
“Sunday night, then.”
Marisa nodded. “At the San Juanito restaurant in Mirador. It’s the best food in the city, which I say with no bias whatsoever.” She saw movement over his shoulder, and looked up to see Bao, now changed back into his black jacket, the clipboard and hat and microphone hidden in his pockets. She pulled away from Saif, not realizing how close they’d been standing, and called out to him. “You okay?”
“Happy and carefree,” he said, though there was a look of concern in his eyes she couldn’t quite place.
“Ready to go?” she asked.
Bao nodded. “I’m paying for the cab again?”
“I’ll pay you back as soon as I get home,” she said. “With interest.” She looked at the clock again. “Now let’s hurry, I’m down to fifty-five minutes before my parents go nuclear.”
TWELVE
Marisa made it home in fifty-two minutes.
She’d spent the ride home using Bao’s phone to coordinate a plan with Sahara, copying Marisa’s ID to Cameron and then sending him out to sit on the back of a long-distance hauler and ride away across the country. If the Bluescreen dealers tried to track her, they’d think she was fleeing—it wouldn’t fool them for long, but it would buy a few days at least. A camera nuli was a small price to pay. And if Marisa’s parents happened to check her on GPS, well, she was at home now, right? She’d pass it off as a glitch.
Marisa tried her front door, but found it locked. She closed her eyes, sighing at herself for forgetting—without her djinni, the house didn’t recognize her. It gave her a moment of sickening unease, imagining that all her devices were really only communicating with each other, and she was incidental; the house didn’t let her in, it let her djinni in. If all the humans disappeared one day, would the city still go about its daily business, busy little nulis running around building and cleaning and repairing, without ever noticing that the people were gone?
She shook the thought away. She had more pressing concerns. Marisa looked down the street, as if expecting to see a black van lurking in a shadow, ready to attack, but of course there was nothing. She stared at the door again, sighed, and knocked.
“Like the caveman,” she murmured.
“What on earth?” said someone inside. The voice was too muffled to identify. “Don’t answer it, and call . . . the enforcers, maybe? The police?”
“It’s me!” Marisa shouted. “It’s Marisa!”
“Why are you knocking?” And why are you . . . on the highway to Albuquerque?”
Marisa recognized the voice now. “Just open the door, Gabi. My djinni’s turned off, it’s a long story.”
Gabi opened the door, and stared at her with one eyebrow raised. “Do I want to ask?”
“Of course you do,” said Marisa, stepping inside and closing the door firmly behind her. “You just don’t want me to answer. Trust me.”
“Mari!” shouted Pati, running toward her at full speed. She was still dressed in Marisa’s old clothes from that morning. That seemed so long ago now. Pati checked herself at the last minute, merely grabbing Marisa’s waist in a hug instead of slamming into her full-force. “I knew you were out doing something awesome. Did you go dancing? Did you kiss a boy?”
Marisa thought about Saif’s chin on her cheek, and shook her head. “I did not kiss a boy.”
Pati’s eye’s widened. “Did you kiss two boys?”
“I didn’t kiss anyone,” said Marisa, trying to push the twelve-year-old away. “I need to get up to my room, Pati. Mami and Papi are almost home.”
Gabi looked at Marisa dryly. “Mami called me to ask where you were; apparently your calls weren’t going through.”
“Djinni off,” said Marisa again, and cringed as she asked the next question. “What did you tell her?”
Gabi shrugged. “That you were on the rag, and turned off calling because you didn’t want to talk to anyone.”
Marisa practically melted with relief. “Thanks, Gabi, you’re the best.”
“Thanks for taking me to ballet last night,” said Gabi. “Just don’t . . . just be careful, okay? I don’t want to be the one who lies to Mami the day someone finds you
dead in an alley.”
Marisa shook her head, not sure how to answer. “I’m doing my best.”
“Mari never gets hurt,” said Pati. “She’s the coolest. She even has—mierda, Mari, is that blood on your hand?” Pati grabbed Mari’s prosthetic hand and lifted it to her face, studying the blood still crusted on the metal knuckles.
Marisa pulled her hand away. “We don’t say that word.”
“Did you get in a fight?” asked Pati. “Did you win? Is that why your djinni was down?”
“I’m fine,” said Marisa, pushing her away again and moving toward the stairs. “It wasn’t a fight, I was . . . helping somebody. It was like first aid.” She started up the stairs, with Pati close on her heels.
“Did you get my message this morning?” asked Pati. “I have something to show you, I got it at school and it’s the best thing ever.”
“Not right now, Pati, I have to get to my room.”
“That’s fine, I’ll meet you there!” Pati pushed past her on the narrow stairs and ran to her bedroom. Mari walked to her own room, waving at Sandro through his open door; he was sitting at his desk, as always, his eyes glued to a textbook.
“Hey, Sandro.”
“Just in time,” he said, without looking up. “They’re on the front porch.”
“Crap,” said Marisa. “Can you open my door?”
Sandro shot her a concerned look, but rolled his eyes and bypassed their father’s lock. Her door swung open; she ran inside and started desperately trying to wipe up the blood from her hand with an old T-shirt.
“Buenas noches!” called her father from below. “How are my beautiful children today?”
“It’s eleven-thirty, Dad,” said Sandro. “Don’t shout.”
“You’re all awake,” shouted Carlo Magno, even louder than before, “I know my own children!”
“Ay, Carlo,” said Guadalupe, “we have neighbors, too, you know.”
“Hello to them, too!” shouted Carlo Magno. Guadalupe laughed.
Marisa examined her knuckles for any visible blood, listening for the creak on the stairs that would announce one or both of her parents coming up. Instead she heard pounding footsteps in the hall, and looked up at her unlocked, open door just in time to see Pati come barreling through it, two dark blue headjack drives clutched in her hand.
