Bluescreen

by Dan Wells

  “Right here,” said Sahara, pointing to the image. “There’s a cable running into the warehouse—we cut that and we drop them to emergency levels.”

  Bao nodded. “And don’t forget, the solar trees don’t connect to the server farm through magic. There’s going to be one or two heavy cables right there in the server room that we could cut once we get inside.”

  “Okay then,” said Saif. “How are you going to get inside?”

  “These people have been working closely with a Chinese gang,” said Bao. “I, as you may have noticed, am Chinese. What are the odds that any given security guard employed by the Bluescreen cartel knows every Tì Xū Dāo thug by sight? It’s virtually impossible. If I can get my hands on one of those goofy, spangly jackets, I’m betting I can slip in.”

  “That . . . shouldn’t work,” said Saif. “Is this a live image?”

  “It was two minutes ago,” said Marisa.

  “Then look,” said Saif, pointing at the parking lot. “This entire fenced area is crawling with people and vehicles. That’s got to be Tì Xū Dāo, and I guarantee they know each other. You’re not getting past them.”

  “Not easily,” said Bao. “I haven’t figured that part out yet.”

  “This exterior power cable probably goes right to the server room,” said Anja, pointing at the screen. “With only one angle, though, I can’t tell exactly where that room is. Main floor? Second floor? How many floors does this place have?” She looked around at the rest of the devastated restaurant. “How many of these screens work? Let’s get some street views of this place.”

  “On it,” said Sahara, focusing on her djinni display. “Get the screens.”

  Anja and Marisa leaped into action, collecting every working screen in the building, and Bao helped arrange them into a makeshift command center: two wall screens, three table menus—one with a spidery crack across the center—and the small hostess screen from the podium. Sahara connected to the San Juanito network and sent each screen a different image: live feeds from traffic nulis, archived street photos from the net, and even a blueprint from the construction company that built the place. Put together, they could see the building from every angle.

  “Perfect,” said Marisa. “Okay, so this is where the power cable comes in, on the west wall.” She tapped the image on one of the table menus. That’s the top floor, and from the layout of the windows I’d say there’s only two floors inside. So the server farm is probably here, in the northwest corner, and the nearest entrance is . . . this side door.”

  “Almost certainly locked,” said Bao. “I’ll have to go in the front and find my way from there.”

  “Which you can’t do,” said Saif, “because you’ll never get past the Tì Xū Dāo.”

  “Maybe we could distract them,” said Bao. “Find some way of pulling their attention, or just completely . . . scaring them away?”

  “You want to scare an armed gang?” asked Sahara. “How good at this do you think you are?”

  “They’ve only recently hooked up with the Bluescreen cartel,” said Bao. “Maybe they have a headquarters of their own somewhere else in the city—we could threaten it somehow, send out a fake fire alarm or something.”

  “Or light a real fire,” said Anja. Marisa glared at her. “What?” asked Anja. “Everything else we’re doing, and arson is where you draw the line?”

  “What about these loading doors in the back?” asked Sahara. “Could you get in there?”

  “Maybe if you had a delivery van and a convincing invoice,” said Saif. “But there’s no way you could get that.”

  “We’d have to steal a shipment that’s already coming in,” said Bao, “or hack their calendar so they think one’s coming in.”

  “Hacking’s not going to work,” said Marisa, staring at the screen. “Which sucks.” She tapped her teeth with her metal forefinger. “I wish we could see inside—maybe there’s something there that will tip us off—some awesome something that makes this all work.”

  “I might be able to get Camilla close enough to peek inside,” said Sahara. “Even if they shoot her down, it might be worth it for a quick look.”

  “And then they’d know we’re coming,” said Marisa, shaking her head. “We need the element of surprise.”

  “How about another delivery nuli?” asked Anja. “Like the one you stole last night? A random cambot would raise questions, but one with a legit logo might be able to get in. Assuming these are the type of people who order delivery.”

  “That . . . ,” Saif growled. “Damn it, that might work.”

  “You don’t sound very pleased,” said Marisa.

  “Because I don’t want you to do this,” said Saif. “Marisa, can we please talk?”

  “A dinner delivery will work great,” said Sahara. “Everyone will assume it was someone else who ordered. No one will even question it.”

  “Let’s try it,” said Marisa. “What do you think: tacos?”

  “Chinese,” said Anja.

  “I can’t decide if that’s racist or not,” said Bao.

  “Are you kidding?” asked Anja. “Take it from an outsider—you Los Angelinos eat Chinese, like, four meals a day. Even San Juanito serves lo mein.”

  Bao shrugged. “Fair enough.”

  Marisa called up a list of Chinese restaurants with good delivery options, and read one aloud: “Fung Noodle; it’s about ten miles away, which gives us time to hack into the onboard systems of whatever nuli they send. Plus it’s cheap—how much are we sending them?”

  “These people shot up my neighborhood,” said Sahara. “No way am I buying them dinner.”

  “You know what?” asked Saif. “I’ll pay for it. I have to admit I’m dying to see how they react to this thing.”

  “Wait!” shouted Marisa. “Don’t turn your djinni back on!”

  Saif froze, staring at her with his mouth open. “Kutte ke tatte, I totally forgot. Sorry for cussing.”

  “I’ll ask Jaya what that means later,” said Marisa. “Are you on now?”

  “Yeah,” said Saif, “I’m halfway through the order, just let me finish and I’ll turn it back off.”

  “How long have you been on?”

  “I got on just now,” said Saif. “It’s okay, I’m fine.” He blinked a few more times, and then his eyes refocused on Marisa. “Done. And . . . off.”

  “Be careful,” said Marisa softly, feeling her heart slowly return to a normal speed. “That was close, and I . . . don’t want . . .” She almost said I don’t want to lose you, but stopped herself.

  “They didn’t take him over,” said Anja. “Why did they not have an alert for when he popped up in their system?”

  “I just barely logged in,” said Saif. “Maybe it . . . takes a while for my profile to pop up? Or maybe they’re not even watching anymore. Maybe it’s safe to use our djinnis again.”

  “Too risky,” said Marisa. “Stay offline.”

  “The order just entered Fung Noodle’s tracking system,” said Sahara. “I’m observing but don’t have any admin controls. Break out the Goblins.” Marisa blinked open her Goblin file and set them loose on Fung Noodle, helping Sahara break in. They cracked the main system by the time the food was ready, and hijacked the delivery nuli halfway to the Bluescreen warehouse. They mirrored its camera to the main screen on their wall, and watched as it flew across the city, houses and palm trees and uncountable autocars zooming away beneath it.

  “This almost feels too easy,” said Anja. “I’m suspicious.”

  “I bought dinner for four,” said Saif. “Told them it was the techs on the top floor. How far in do you think the nuli can get before they stop it?”

  “I’ll be happy with a good look at the lobby,” said Bao. “Obviously more is better, and it is a warehouse—for all we know it’s open inside like a barn.”

  “There it is,” said Marisa. She grabbed Saif’s hand without thinking, so nervous she rose up on her toes. “Work,” she whispered. “Just show us some
thing we can use, that’s all I ask.”

  Anja frowned, watching the screen as the nuli dropped down over the crowd of Tì Xū Dāo, heading for the front door. “Is that . . . ?”

  “Nine hells,” said Marisa, so shocked she felt the world seem to spin away beneath her, crumbling into nothingness like she was back in NeverMind and reality had failed. Standing in the lobby was a tall blond man, agitated and scared, deep in conversation with a young Mexican man: well-dressed, devilishly handsome, and impossible to trust.

  She found her voice again. “Omar.”

  NINETEEN

  “What are they saying?” asked Bao.

  “I’m going to kill him,” said Sahara.

  “You know him?” asked Saif.

  “We—” Anja stammered, “we don’t know if he’s working with them. Maybe he’s there representing the Maldonados, negotiating a truce . . . or something . . .”

  “Alone and unarmed?” asked Sahara. “Are you kidding?”

  “What are they saying?” asked Bao again. “Marisa, can you get sound?”

  “I . . .” Marisa felt helpless, but Bao’s question gave her focus; she couldn’t fathom finding Omar in the headquarters of their enemy, but manipulating a nuli to broadcast sound was simple and technical, something she could wrap her head around. “I think so. Hang on.” She blinked through the nuli’s remote admin controls, searching for a microphone, but found nothing. “The nuli doesn’t have anything.”

  “Of course it does,” said Sahara. “There’s always a speaker you can use to talk to the restaurant.”

  “It doesn’t have one,” said Marisa.

  “What kind of backward nuli did you hack?” asked Anja.

  “What else do we have?” said Sahara. “Is there another nuli nearby? I could send Camilla, but it’d be ten minutes just to get it there.”

  “We don’t have time,” said Marisa. “Let’s use the . . . the Johara network again. I have Omar’s ID, we can activate his mic remotely.”

  “That’s twice as illegal as the last thing we used their network for,” said Bao.

  “Then cover me,” said Marisa, and blinked back into the Johara network.

  Saif shook his head. “If Johara finds you snooping around in their system—”

  “Already in,” said Mari.

  Sahara growled, blinking rapidly to follow her. “Damn it, Mari, wait for me.”

  “No time,” said Marisa, She opened the back door again and started flipping through the tech support system, looking for a remote link. “You’ll have to hide two connections—me to Johara, and Omar’s djinni to San Juanito.”

  “I can’t work that fast,” said Sahara.

  “Just get out!” yelled Saif. “You’ll get us all arrested!”

  “I’ll help,” Anja said, and powered up her djinni.

  “Anja, don’t!” Marisa shouted. “This is—”

  “—too important to miss,” said Anja. “Now go!”

  Marisa found the link, entered Omar’s ID, and routed it to the San Juanito wall screen. “Ready?”

  Anja blinked a final time, and she and Sahara spoke almost in unison: “Go.”

  Marisa activated Omar’s ambient mic, and connected the link.

  “—and that’s unacceptable,” said the blond man. “Completely unacceptable.” He had a German accent, thicker than Anja’s but still easy to understand.

  “That must be Nils,” said Sahara.

  “You were supposed to provide protection,” said Nils. “That’s why we came to this neighborhood in the first place—because you said the local gang was under your thumb—”

  “It was,” said Omar, answering just as angrily, “but the Maldonados can’t control La Sesenta with all our money tied up in this damn operation.”

  “That’s what Calaca was talking about when he shook down the restaurant,” said Marisa. “That the Maldonado money had dried up—”

  “That’s where the money went?” shouted Anja. “They’re helping make Bluescreen?”

  “Can you all please be quiet?” said Bao. “We can freak out about this later, let’s listen to it first.”

  “We can’t pay you,” said Nils. “Lal explained this before—you made an investment, and we won’t have anything to give back to you until that investment pays off. That’s what an investment is.”

  “Your business plan didn’t say anything about shooting up the barrio!” shouted Omar. “I don’t care what you have to liquidate to pay us back, but you do it now—you shut this down, you sell your equipment, you get us our money.”

  “I don’t even know if that’s possible,” said Nils. “I’m not the money guy—you need to be talking to Lal.”

  “So where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” said Nils, and seemed to notice the nuli for the first time. “Rosa, did you order food?”

  A woman answered from across the room. “No, maybe it was Steve.”

  “Well, get it out of here.”

  “Stop changing the subject,” said Omar. “Where is Muralithar?”

  Rosa came into view as they talked, collecting the food from the delivery nuli. Marisa thought she maybe recognized her, but she wasn’t sure; the woman was definitely Hispanic, but so was half of Los Angeles.

  “I don’t know,” said Nils, “out with that girl he keeps talking about, maybe—I’m not his secretary. I’m a programmer, and that’s all I do here.”

  “You mean when you’re not murdering college students?” asked Omar. Nils looked shocked, and then the nuli turned and flew away, and all they had left was the audio.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about eLiza,” said Omar. “Or did you think we weren’t going to figure that out?”

  “That wasn’t me,” said Nils.

  “But it was your organization,” said Omar. “It was your pinche Bluescreen—just like Tì Xū Dāo is your pinche muscle.”

  “I didn’t hire them,” said Nils.

  “That’s not how this works!” said Omar. “You’re a partner in this; you need to take responsibility—”

  “You’re a partner, too,” said Nils. “Or your father is. I do the code; Lal does the business; your father does the money—that was our agreement, and once we finally get into Ganika we can pay you back and you can be done.”

  “Oh, schiess,” said Anja.

  “Wait, what about Ganika?” asked Omar. “What’s the plan for Ganika?”

  “I shouldn’t have said anything,” said Nils, “I’m—I’m not the business guy—”

  “Stop saying that, and tell me what you know!” Omar shouted. “What is Lal planning?”

  “Do you know what he’ll do to me if he even finds out we’ve been talking?” Nils shouted. “I don’t even go home anymore—I couldn’t sleep if I tried. It is a nightmare in here, and we’re trapped in it, and anyone who crosses Lal gets—”

  The audio cut off.

  “Get it back,” said Sahara.

  “What was he saying about Ganika?” asked Anja.

  “And who’s Lal?” asked Marisa. “Saif, this is the third time I’ve heard them talk about someone named Lal—have you ever met—whoa, are you okay?”

  Saif was leaning heavily against the wall, sweating. “I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Marisa, stepping toward him. She put a hand on his cheek. “You’re burning up.”

  “Just nerves,” said Saif, “this is . . . bigger than we thought it was, we need to—”

  “It’s way bigger,” said Anja. “I’ll bet you anything they were talking about the new Ganika plant in LA. That’s what their whole plan has been building toward.”

  “We already know they’re going after major corporations,” said Sahara. “Like your dad and Abendroth—if they get the right people they can bypass biometric security, they can control buying and selling decisions, manipulate the world economy—”

  “No,” said Marisa, “she’s right. Control a few djinnis and you control Abend
roth, but control Ganika and you control djinnis themselves.”

  “Oh, scheiss,” said Bao. “I assume that’s an appropriate curse word for this situation?”

  “If they get access to the Ganika production floor, they can do anything they want,” said Anja. “They can hardwire the Bluescreen code directly into every new djinni they make. They can add it to software updates and push it out to every customer in their system. People will upload the puppet virus directly into their own heads.”

  “Sixty-five percent,” said Sahara. “Two-thirds of the world’s population, completely under Bluescreen’s control.”

  Marisa sat down. “Now I’m going to be sick.”

  “We don’t know this for sure,” said Saif. “This is all just speculation—”

  Anja’s arm flew up in the air.

  “Whoa,” said Bao. “You okay?”

  “I don’t know—” Anja’s arm twitched again, up and then out to the side. “I don’t—” Her leg twitched, so sharply she almost fell. She grabbed the nearest table for support.

  Marisa stood up. “Anja, did you turn your djinni back off?”

  “I’m trying,” said Anja, gritting her teeth. Her knuckles were turning white where she gripped the table. “I can’t . . .” Her teeth were clenched tightly together. “Move.”

  “We have to cut her off from the net,” said Sahara. “Kill the connection—don’t worry about fighting the program, just kill the connection—”

  “I’m trying,” said Anja again. A tear rolled down her cheek. “This isn’t like before—something’s different.”

  “You couldn’t fight it before,” said Marisa, crossing to her. “You’re getting better at it—”

  “It’s not a mind,” said Anja. “I can feel the difference. I’m not . . . it’s not another mind forcing me out. It’s an—” She went limp, staying on her feet, but with all the tension flowing out of her muscles in a rush. She straightened up, and her head swiveled, surveying the room.

  And then she attacked.