by Dan Wells
“Good point,” said Jaya, and looked back at Fang. “Girl? Boy? Fluid?”
“Bored,” said Fang. “Where’s Anja?”
“And like a phantom she was among them,” said Anja. She appeared in a cloud of pink smoke, like a genie from a cartoon lamp, but as the smoke cleared Marisa saw that her avatar was wildly technological—plates of sparkling armor, with little wings and jets poking out all over the place. She hovered in the center of the room for a moment, then landed dramatically. “I suppose you’re wondering why I called you here today—whoa, who changed the floor?”
“Will you please just tell us your announcement?” asked Sahara.
“Fine,” said Anja. “You ready for this? Are you all sitting down?”
“We’re lying down,” said Jaya, “plugged into a VR interface.”
“I got us into a tournament,” said Anja, her armor-plated face practically sparkling with excitement.
“I get us into the tournaments,” said Sahara.
“Not this one,” said Anja, shaking her head. “Imagine, if you will, a tournament so special you can’t even get in without an invitation. So exclusive you can’t get an invitation without knowing someone. And so high profile that you can’t even know the right people without spending a grotesque amount of money.”
“We don’t have even a disgusting amount of money,” said Marisa. “Grotesque is way out of our price range.”
“And we don’t do pay-to-play,” said Sahara. “We’ve talked about this—anything we get into, we get into because of our skills in the game. No corrupt agents or organizers, and no gambling on ante prize pools.”
“This is none of those things,” said Anja, pointing at Sahara, and then pointing at Marisa with her other hand. “And we don’t need any money, because the payment has already been made.” She waved her hands in front of her, her fingers still pointing out. “By Abendroth.”
Abendroth was the company her father worked for—one of the largest drone and nuli companies in the world. Marisa frowned. If Abendroth paid to get them into a tournament, that could only mean . . .
“Great Holy Hand Grenades,” said Sahara. “You got us into Forward Motion.”
Anja beamed.
“No way,” said Fang.
“Whoa,” said Jaya, “what’s Forward Motion?”
“It’s a charity event,” said Marisa. “Like a . . . benefit concert, or something? I thought it was just for celebrity players, like Differential or Su-Yun Kho.”
“That would be worth it all by itself,” said Sahara. “Su-Yun Kho is my hero.”
“Close,” said Anja. “It’s kind of like an ante pool, except the money you put in doesn’t go to prizes, it goes to charity—specifically, in this case, to bulk up wireless networks in underprivileged areas. Giving starving little kids in Iowa or whatever a chance to get a real education, and for businesses to compete on an even footing. That kind of thing.”
“So the ante is more of a donation,” said Jaya. “That means they’re all going to come from large corporations, like Abendroth.”
“It also means publicity,” said Sahara, and Marisa could hear the undercurrent of hunger in her voice. “Megacorps can give money to anyone, but if they’re giving it to this tournament, it’s because they want everyone to see them giving money. That’s why they send teams and do a competition: so people will pay attention. There’s going to be cameras everywhere, and reporters, and maybe even talent scouts—”
“No scouts,” said Fang. “There are only two kinds of teams in a tourney like this: all-star superteams, pulled in to crush the competition, and spoiled rich kids who want to pretend they can play in the big leagues. Talent scouts don’t care about either one.”
“And we don’t fit into either of those groups,” said Marisa. “Are you sure we can join?”
“Of course we can,” said Anja. “You’ve got your very own spoiled rich kid: me. I’ve spent a solid week talking my dad into sponsoring a team, and he finally broke down this morning when I made him breakfast in bed, served along with a link to an article detailing exactly the kind of visibility Sahara was talking about. Abendroth stands to gain a massive amount of goodwill in the corporate community, and we stand to gain a big giant spotlight in which to finally show off what the Cherry Dogs can do! Screw this minor-league garbage we’ve been playing in—a win here, or even a good performance, will get us the attention we need to push us right over the top and into a real league. We can go pro after something like this.”
“No way,” said Fang. “These charity events are a novelty—nobody important actually watches them.”
“They’ll be watching this one,” said Sahara. Her avatar had the inert oddness of someone whose controller was looking at a separate data stream. “I found the article Anja mentioned—Forward Motion is going to be hosted this year by an internet service provider. Guess which one.”
Marisa shot her a look. “Don’t tell me.”
“KT Sigan,” said Sahara. “This is their pet project, and they control half the news feeds in this hemisphere—everyone is going to hear about this thing.”
“Read the next part of the article!” said Anja, practically jumping up and down. “It’s the best part of the whole thing!”
Sahara shook her head. “I . . . don’t see anything exciting.”
“The part about the network,” said Anja, “read it read it read it!”
Sahara sighed. “Let’s see. ‘“We have something special planned for this year’s tournament,” said KT Sigan president Kwon Dae.’ Is that the right part?”
“Why would ‘something special’ not be the right part?” asked Fang.
“Because it’s super boring,” said Sahara.
“Just read it!” shouted Anja.
“Okay, okay. ‘“The entire tournament will be played on a closed network, on which we will use a randomized program to simulate the low bandwidth and frequent connectivity problems encountered by the millions of people around the world who don’t have access to proper internet service. Not only will this help prevent cheating, keeping the tournament servers insulated against outside interference, it will also help shine a light on the often crippling data jams that are keeping so many regions underdeveloped. Once people see for themselves how those communities live, they’ll be even more eager to help us create a positive change in the world.”’” Sahara shook her head again. “They’re just going to throttle the connection speed—that’s not exciting.”
“It is kind of insulting, though,” said Jaya. “Slow internet is a legitimate problem in some places, I admit, but there’s still, you know, world hunger. Disease epidemics. He’s talking like a laggy video game is a world health crisis.”
“Why does he mention cheating?” asked Fang. “No one’s been able to cheat in a major Overworld tournament in, like, six years.”
Marisa thought about the implications of a closed-network tournament, and suddenly the reason for Anja’s excitement dawned on her. “Anja’s right,” she shouted, feeling a surge of joy run through her. She looked at Anja eagerly. “Is Abendroth paying for that bit, too?”
Anja nodded.
“Paying for what?” asked Sahara. “Can you just come out and tell us?”
“The tournament’s being played on a closed network,” said Marisa. “That means no one can connect remotely, which means—”
“We’ll have to travel there in person,” said Fang.
“Balle balle!” shouted Jaya. She looked at Marisa, then at Anja. “Abendroth’s flying us to LA?”
“Yep, and putting you up in a hotel too,” said Anja.
“Screw hotels,” said Sahara, “you guys are staying with me!”
Jaya leaped at them both and smothered them in a hug. “I’m so excited!”
“This will be amazing,” said Sahara. “All five of us, together on screen at the same time.”
Of course Sahara was thinking about the publicity. Marisa smiled broadly, more excited at the prospect of ge
tting everyone together than she’d been for the tournament itself. “Amazing is right,” she said. “This is going to be the best.”
“Ahem,” said Fang. “How do you even know we all can make it?”
“I can!” said Jaya.
Anja looked at Fang. “Can you?”
Fang grinned. “Of course I can, but it’s nice to be asked.”
“The tournament starts next week, right?” asked Marisa.
“Yeah,” said Sahara. “The opening ceremonies are on Monday.”
“I can have Fang and Jaya here by Sunday morning,” said Anja. “Los Angeles, get ready for the Cherry Dogs!”
FOUR
Pati screamed. “That’s amazing!”
“I know,” said Marisa, still grinning like a fool. “I can barely believe it.”
“This is so cool,” said Pati. “This is cool as sh—”
“Cuídate la boca,” said Carlo Magno. “Ay, qué niña malcriada.”
“Sorry, Papi,” said Pati. “This is cool as . . . crap?”
“Just say it’s cool,” said Guadalupe.
“And get upstairs,” said Carlo Magno. “You have school in the morning.”
“Okay, Papi.” Pati gave Marisa one last hug and a high-pitched squeal, and then bounded up the stairs to bed.
“This truly is wonderful,” said Guadalupe. “You’ve been trying to get into a real tournament for so long.”
“It isn’t a real, professional tournament,” said Marisa. “Just a charity thing.”
“That means it’s better than a real tournament,” said Carlo Magno.
“It’s definitely going to have a bigger audience than any of the minor-league stuff we’ve been trying to get into,” said Marisa. She hesitated, then looked at her father. “Does that mean you’ll watch?”
Carlo Magno sighed. “You know I can’t get into that game.”
“That’s just because you don’t understand it,” said Marisa. She sat next to him on the couch, crossing her legs under her. “If you didn’t understand soccer, you wouldn’t enjoy that either.”
“It’s called football,” said Carlo Magno. “Show some respect for your heritage.”
Marisa hit him with a couch pillow. “Papi, don’t tease me, this is important.”
“Overworld is a game for the younger generation,” said Carlo Magno. “I’m too old to watch it.”
“You’re forty-four,” said Marisa. “eSports have been a thing since before you were born.”
“You know he’s never been a gamer,” said Guadalupe. “Heaven knows I’ve tried to convert him.”
“You have all these powers,” he said, “and crazy costumes. Nobody in football dresses up like a pirate and shoots fireballs out of their hands.”
“But imagine how awesome it would be if they did,” said Marisa.
Carlo Magno laughed. “Fine,” he said. “For you, mija, I’ll watch it. But I don’t promise to understand it.”
“How can you not understand it?” shouted Pati from the stairs. “It’s the greatest game ever!”
“To bed!” shouted Carlo Magno.
“I’ll tuck her in,” said Guadalupe, and shooed Pati back upstairs.
“I know you’re supposed to blow up a vault,” said Carlo Magno. “That’s as far as I get.”
“It’s just like any other sport,” said Marisa. “You have two teams of five, and each player—called an agent—has a position. Soccer has stuff like forwards, defenders, and goalies, and Overworld has General, Guard, Sniper, Spotter, and Jungler.”
“Only one Jungler?” he asked. “Is there only one jungle?”
“Most of the time there’s not any jungle at all,” she said. “I don’t know why they call it that—it’s from some older game, I think. Anyway: like you said, each team has a vault, and you win by blowing up the other team’s vault. But each vault is defended by turrets, which are too powerful for even the five players to take out by themselves, so each team also gets AI minions, which spawn every minute or so. They run across the map and attack the other team’s agents and turrets. The General’s job is to lead the minions and give them power buffs and that kind of stuff. She’s the most important player on a team, so she has another player called a Guard whose whole job is to back her up.”
“So you’re the General,” said Carlo Magno.
“Of course not,” said Marisa, feeling herself blush. “Sahara’s the General—she’s the leader, and calls all the plays, and tells everyone what to do.”
“But you’d be so good at that—”
“I would be a terrible General, Papi,” said Marisa. “I don’t come up with strategies. I just follow orders.”
Carlo Magno raised his eyebrow suspiciously. “Are we talking about the same Marisa?”
“Papi, will you just let me explain the game?”
“Sí,” he said. “So are you the Sniper, then? You’d be good at that, too.”
“Anja’s the Sniper, Papi. You said you’d let me talk.”
“Sorry,” he said. “Talk.”
“Every game map is split into three levels, called lanes—there’s the city, which is the main one with all the minions, then there’s the sewers, which is where the Jungler goes—”
“It’s not called the jungle?”
“It doesn’t even look like a jungle.”
“Does it look like a sewer?”
“Not . . . usually,” she said. “Listen, will you quit getting hung up on the terminology so we can move on? Sports terms are just weird. Why is the goalie called a ‘goalkeeper’ if their whole job is to get rid of goals instead of keep them?”
“It’s like a groundskeeper,” said Carlo Magno. “They ‘keep’ the goal by, like, tending to it. Like a gardener.”
“Well if they’d just call it a Gardener that would make so much more sense,” said Marisa.
“This game has ruined you.”
“Whatever, viejito,” said Marisa. “So there’s a city and a sewer. The third lane is called the roof, and that’s where the Sniper and the Spotter play. I’m the Spotter—it’s like the Guard, but for the Sniper.”
“So you play backup to the backup?” said Carlo Magno, raising an eyebrow.
“It’s an important position, Papi! And it’s more variable than any other position—sometimes I spec for defense, sometimes for melee combat, and sometimes I’m like a second Sniper. I’m like a . . . swing position, who can do anything.”
Carlo Magno beamed. “I knew my daughter was the most important one.”
“Papi, you’re impossible,” she said, but inside she felt warm and happy.
“I assume,” he said, “that ‘spec’ means ‘build’? Or something like that?”
“It means ‘specialize,’” she said. “This is where the fireballs come in. There are a ton of different ways to customize your character. At the start of each game you choose a role, like Flanker or Striker, and then two powersets, and each powerset has six different specialties and twelve different elements. So, like, Electricity Ranged has different powers than Electricity Defense, but they both obviously drain energy from the enemy.”
“That’s obvious?”
“They’re electricity powers—what else would they do?”
He frowned. “Electrocute people?”
“Yeah, but that’s, like, one power. There’s seventy-two electricity powersets with two hundred and sixteen electricity powers; they can’t all do the same thing.”
“You said they all drain energy.”
“In different ways,” she said, scratching the back of her head. “Papi, you just need to watch a game. This isn’t that hard to figure out.”
“I’m trying,” he said tersely. “I just . . . it’s late. And you have school tomorrow too, just like Pati. Get some rest, and we can . . .” He grimaced. “Talk about this more tomorrow.”
“You don’t sound happy about that.”
“If it’s important to you, it’s important to me.”
Marisa looked at
him for a long moment, then leaned forward to hug him. “I’m sorry I fight with you so much.”
“What do you mean?” he asked. “We just had one of our friendliest conversations ever.”
“I know,” she said, “and we still snapped at each other.”
He hugged her. “I love you, Mari. Even when I don’t understand you.”
“A ti también,” she said, and then they both said in unison:
“Which is most of the time.”
Marisa laughed and hugged him back. “Te amo, Papi. I’ll see you in the morning.” She went upstairs, passing her mami on the way and giving her a hug and a kiss. “Te amo.”
“Te amo, mija,” she said. “Straight to sleep—no internet.”
“I know, Mami,” said Marisa, feeling only a little bad about lying. She had way too much to do to even think about going to sleep, and most of it was on the internet, but she wanted to wait until her family was asleep first. She went to her room and plugged into a “Speak Chinese” VR program her teacher had assigned her, instantly appearing on a street in Shanghai. It wasn’t just a 3D movie, like the old days, but a full experience tied directly to the brain’s sensory inputs—the VR program didn’t just show you a picture and hope your optic nerves could interpret correctly; it literally told your brain exactly what to see, and what to hear and smell and feel, and then it did. She walked into a restaurant in the virtual Shanghai and ordered some food, practicing her pronunciation and some basic question grammar, but kept Olaya, the home computer, open in the corner of her vision. It monitored the family’s positions, and as soon as everyone had retreated to their rooms, she unplugged from the Chinese program, locked her door, and sat down at her desk. She had three box computers, two tablets, her djinni, and a KT Sigan security code. Now was her chance to track down Grendel.
“Let’s do this,” she whispered.
Her security code came from that office worker, Pablo Nakamoto. She didn’t need his passwords, and thank goodness she didn’t need his biometric information; all she needed was the data string the Sigan network had assigned to him when he used their system to contact the Solipsis Cafe with his lunch order. Marisa woke up one of her box computers, routed her connection through a series of anonymous internet carrier stations, and then reached out to the Sigan network, looking not for the public facade but for the structure behind it, the moving parts that made the public stuff function. The Sigan server queried her own, the computer version of checking someone’s passport at the border: Are you allowed to be here? She fed it Pablo Nakamoto’s data string, the server accepted it, and she was in.
