Ones and Zeroes

by Dan Wells

  “Perfecto,” said Marisa. “Now let’s get to work.”

  THIRTEEN

  Marisa wore the green dress, and it was perfect.

  “I think it fits you better now than when you bought it,” said Sahara.

  The two girls were in Sahara’s apartment, finishing the last little touches to their makeup and clothes. Sahara was wearing a dark gray dress with long, puffy sleeves; the waist, bust, shoulders, and cuffs were all decorated with nested arcs of stiff fabric, and the hollows between them were lit with hidden LEDs, so that instead of shadows the gaps were glowing with a rich yellow light. She wore a hat of the same material, with a few lights of its own, though the hat was empty in the middle and Sahara’s natural hair poked up through the ring. More like a crown, thought Marisa. Maybe a tiara. Whatever it was, it looked amazing, and Sahara, of course, had designed it herself.

  As always, Sahara was accompanied by Cameron and Camilla—her two camera nulis that followed her everywhere, recording her life and streaming it live to an eager audience of reality addicts. Marisa blinked on the djinni icon that connected her to Sahara’s feed, and suddenly she was looking at herself, a nuli’s-eye view projected into the center of her vision. She turned around, watching herself in the video for a full 360-degree view. The top half of the dress seemed to wrap around her, forming a diamond shape at the waist and opening up in a wide semicircle just above her bust, framing her collarbones and shoulders and neck inside of a dark green collar that complemented her brown skin perfectly. The bottom half of the dress went about halfway down her thighs, hugging her legs and butt tightly. Marisa smiled.

  “I wish I had your curves,” said Sahara. “Look at that.”

  “Does it look okay?” asked Marisa.

  “It looks amazing,” said Sahara. “Are you kidding me? If I looked like that, I’d quit this life of crime and be a model.”

  “You’re gorgeous,” said Marisa. “And the dress you made is perfect—”

  A text message from Sahara popped up in Marisa’s djinni, and she blinked on it to open it. Oh, I know, sent Sahara. She used text messages when she didn’t want to say something over the video feed. Humility’s one thing, but let’s be honest: we look hot as hell.

  Another message popped up from Pati: Your dress looks amazing!

  Marisa smiled and thanked her. You’re watching Sahara’s feed?

  Of course! I’M SO JEALOUS YOU GET TO GO TO THIS PARTY!!!

  Marisa started texting a response, but another message popped up and distracted her. This one was from Jin Lee, Bao’s sister: Anja’s here. We’ll pick you up in a few minutes.

  Marisa looked at Sahara. “Anja and Jin are on their way.” She was careful not to mention Jun, Jin’s twin sister, who was coming in a separate cab—if evidence of the deception showed up anywhere on Sahara’s video feed, they’d essentially be streaming their entire crime live for all to see. Pati wasn’t the only one watching; Sahara’s vidcast was popular enough that she was sometimes recognized on the street. For tonight, as far as they were concerned, only one sister existed.

  Sahara looked in the mirror one last time, touching up her lipstick and then blotting it on a tissue. “Done. Ready to wow some rich boys?”

  “Always,” said Marisa. She grabbed her tiny handbag and opened the door, stepping out onto the narrow landing at the top of the stairs; the camera nulis followed, one behind and another zooming forward to get a better angle as the two girls walked down the stairs. The one in front was Cameron: Sahara had stuck a tiny top hat on one of them, and a hair bow on the other, to help tell which was which. When they reached the sidewalk Marisa opened the side door and went into the restaurant.

  “Mira, qué lindas,” said Marisa’s mami. She was smiling from ear to ear. “You look beautiful! Both of you!” She tapped a nearby customer on the shoulder. “Look at my beautiful daughter!”

  “I thought you didn’t like that dress,” said Gabi, passing by with a tray full of steaming plates of food.

  “I don’t like it for church,” said Guadalupe, though Gabi hadn’t waited around for a response. Their mother looked back at Marisa. “This is a party, and Marisita’s going to knock them dead.”

  “Qué bárbaras,” said Carlo Magno, stepping in from the kitchen. He wiped his hands on a towel and then threw it over his shoulder. “My own daughter, showing more leg than a swim team.”

  Marisa smirked. “It’s 2050, Papi. Women can wear whatever they want.”

  “Oh, mija’s a woman now?” He looked at Guadalupe. “She can wear whatever she wants, she’s a woman.” He looked back at Marisa. “When did you turn twenty-one and not tell me?”

  Marisa raised her eyebrows. “You expect me to believe you’ll start leaving me alone when I’m twenty-one?”

  “Of course not,” said Carlo Magno, “but you could at least wait that long before you start pushing every boundary you see.”

  “They look fine,” said one of the customers. He was an old man named Beto, and a regular in the restaurant. “Déjales, Carlo.” He blinked, and Carlo Magno slapped him on the shoulder.

  “Delete that photo, Beto.”

  “I wasn’t taking a photo, I was just blinking!”

  Carlo Magno fell into an argument with him, and Marisa turned back to her mother. “Wish us luck.”

  “All the luck in the world,” said Guadalupe. She didn’t know about the hack, but the party itself was just as nerve-wracking, if not more, and Marisa was grateful to hear it. Computer systems were something Marisa understood. Fancy galas with the super wealthy, well . . . she was a bit more out of her element.

  “Cab’s here,” said Sahara, looking out the window.

  “Te amo,” Marisa told her mother, hugging her gingerly so she didn’t mess up her dress or her hair.

  “Te amo,” said Guadalupe. “Buena suerte.”

  Marisa followed Sahara to the door, calling back over her shoulder as she went. “Te amo, Papi!”

  “Te amo, mija!”

  She stepped outside, and the restaurant billboard pinged her djinni with a request, probably a coupon urging her to come back soon; Marisa’s djinni automatically deleted it, as she’d told it to do with all of the ads that storefronts tried to send her.

  It was only seven thirty, and still bright outside. She hurried down the two clean steps to the sidewalk, where an autocab waited at the curb with the door already open. Sahara climbed in, sitting next to Jin, and the nulis floated in after her, clinging to the charging stations on the ceiling. Marisa sat by Anja, and leaned close to hug her, but yelped and scooted back when something sharp jabbed her in the leg.

  “Qué traes!”

  The cab closed its doors and rolled away, and Anja grinned, sticking her leg out straight into the space between the benches. “New tights,” she said. “You like them?” Her legs were covered in what looked like fishnet chain mail, gleaming in the light and covered with sharp metal spines.

  “That’s insane,” said Marisa.

  “I love it,” said Sahara. “And I love the hair.”

  Anja was wearing a sleeveless dress, black and covered with slim rubber panels that looked almost like body armor; her arms were wrapped with a series of thick leather bands, latched with heavy buckles and studded with silver spikes. Most shockingly, she’d shaved the left half of her head.

  “I can’t decide which is weirder,” said Marisa. “The hair or the legs.”

  “Neither,” said Anja, rubbing her hand on the bald side. It was smooth as an egg, while the other side was still nearly two feet long. “I look badass.”

  “Totally,” said Sahara.

  “But . . .” Marisa was very proud of her own hair, long and dark brown and perfectly wavy, with the tips dyed carefully red, and she was always surprised when other people didn’t feel the same about their own hair. “Just because you like it now doesn’t mean you’ll like it forever, right? You can cut it off on a whim, but it’s way harder to grow it back.”

  “What is the po
int of changing something if you can just undo it later?” asked Anja.

  “I like it,” said Jin.

  “Oh my gosh,” said Marisa, looking at Jin with wide eyes. “I’m so sorry I didn’t say hello!” She leaned across the gap and put a hand on Jin’s knee. “How are you?”

  “Fine,” said Jin. “Scared.”

  “Don’t be,” said Sahara, giving her a maternal smile. She was almost certainly sending Jin a text message as well, reminding her to be careful what she said in front of the nulis. “This is a very big party, with a very exclusive guest list, but they’re all just people, and they’re all just looking to have a good time. Right?”

  Jin nodded. At sixteen years old, she and her twin were just a year younger than Marisa and the others, but in many ways they were far more experienced at this kind of deception. Ever since Marisa had helped them fake the ID on their djinnis, they’d used the shared identity to con all sorts of people: street sellers and shop owners and even restaurants and movie theaters.

  “You’ll be great,” said Marisa, and then, for the benefit of the cameras: “Thanks for coming with us when our teammates couldn’t make it.”

  “Of course,” said Jin, and almost magically her nervous fidgeting was replaced with sunny confidence. Whatever their other skills might be, Jin and Jun were exquisite actors. Tonight, of course, they were dressed identically: a red dress with a slim, sleeveless top, all in traditional Chinese style, changing at the waist into a flowing Korean chima skirt. That might help to impress Chaewon and the other Koreans at the party, but more important than the style was the freedom of movement: instead of the tight dresses Marisa and Sahara were wearing, Jin’s wide skirt would let her sneak around and, in a pinch, run at full speed. She was even wearing flats instead of heels, just in case. In her hand Jin clutched a cute faux-leather bag, containing a special item Alain had procured: an electromagnetic grenade called a TED. If the worst-case scenario came true and Jin got caught, she could trigger it and wipe the workstation, erasing all the evidence of what they’d been doing. Adorably, the TED was hidden inside of a teddy bear.

  They were ready.

  The cab wove carefully through the city, bringing them closer and closer to the Sigan building. Marisa held up her compact mirror and checked her makeup again.

  “We get to meet Su-Yun Kho,” said Anja. She sounded as nervous as Marisa felt.

  “Just don’t fangirl all over her,” said Sahara. “Let’s try to look professional.”

  “Watch,” said Anja, glancing at Marisa. “She’s going to fangirl way more than either of us.”

  “I used to watch Kho’s games all the time,” said Jin. “I still have one of her trading cards.”

  The cab pulled up to the curb, and the nulis swirled out of the door to get good footage of the girls as they stepped onto the sidewalk.

  “You’re early,” said Alain. His French accent rolled off his tongue like liquid charm. He stood up from a nearby bench, dressed in a tuxedo Anja had bought him for the evening. He looked hot—like, so much hotter than Marisa had been expecting. His hair was still spiky and wild, but it made such a perfect contrast to the clean lines of the tuxedo that he looked more at home here than he did in his slumdog workshop.

  “I didn’t recognize you,” she said. “You do clean up well.”

  “I don’t know how to take that,” said Alain, and the corner of his mouth crept up into that subtle smile. “You sound more surprised than I’d hoped.”

  Marisa raised her eyebrow. “Hoped?”

  A message popped up in Marisa’s djinni, from her sister Pati: Santa vaca, he’s dreamy.

  You’re still watching Sahara’s feed? she sent back.

  I wouldn’t miss this for anything!

  “You must be Alain,” said Sahara, stepping forward and elegantly offering her hand.

  Alain took it gently, and nodded. “And you must be Sahara.”

  “Marisa’s told me all about this exciting new boyfriend of hers,” said Sahara, using the backstory they’d invented as part of the deception. Marisa blushed. “She’s a lucky girl.”

  “Not as lucky as I am,” said Alain, and offered Marisa his arm. “Shall we?”

  Marisa tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow, finding a satisfyingly strong bicep as she did. She smiled. “Absolutely.”

  Other people were arriving at the same time, scattered groups of Overworld players and coaches dressed like Hollywood royalty and streaming across the plaza toward the doors of the building. Marisa blinked back to Sahara’s feed, watching her group out of the corner of her eye as they walked toward the building. They looked . . . out of place. This was a charity tournament for the super wealthy, and most of the other contestants came by that wealth naturally. They carried themselves differently, like they belonged there. Like Anja did. Marisa and the others were interlopers, and everything about them seemed to scream it. She took a breath, her heart fluttering, then straightened her back and held her head high. She was just psyching herself out. She could fake it with the best of them.

  You look great, sent Bao, the message bouncing in the corner of her vision.

  Where are you? she sent back.

  Across the street with Alain’s bike, he sent back. He was part of their getaway plan, if things went poorly. Jun’s with me, and Renata’s on another street with the other motorcycle. As soon as you get back outside, we can get you out of here in seconds.

  Marisa grinned to herself. Can you even drive a motorcycle?

  They don’t drive themselves?

  Marisa almost snorted; Bao knew exactly how the motorcycle worked, but he never passed up the chance for a joke. You’re the worst getaway plan ever, she joked back.

  “Is everything okay?” asked Alain.

  “I’m fine,” she said quickly. She couldn’t talk about Bao with Cameron filming her every word, so she talked about Pati instead. “My sister’s watching the feed, and keeps texting me.”

  “What’s she saying?”

  “She thinks you’re hot.” Marisa glanced at Alain as they reached the door.

  “Say thank you from me,” said Alain, holding the door open. “And tell her the feeling is mutual.”

  “You’ve never seen my sister,” said Marisa.

  “But I’ve seen you,” said Alain. “I’m extrapolating.”

  Marisa felt her stomach flip over, and hoped Alain didn’t notice.

  The lobby of the KT Sigan building was three stories tall, with the back wall adorned by the stylized Hankul symbol that was the company logo. Security guards stood around the periphery of the room, watching the partygoers idly, but the majority of the actual security was being performed by the building itself: Wi-Fi scanners read their IDs and checked them against the guest list; chemical sniffers passively probed them for weapons and explosives. Alain had assured them that the TED would go completely undetected, but Marisa couldn’t help but hold her breath. Would there be an alarm? A swarm of security nulis descending on Jin with tasers? Or maybe just a silent call to the human guards? They moved forward through the crowd, waiting nervously, but nothing happened. The TEDs hadn’t been detected. Marisa breathed again, shaking her head, and gripped Alain’s arm more tightly in silent thanks.

  “Told you,” he murmured.

  As the crowd moved forward, the security guards began herding them up the stairs, to where the express elevators were waiting to take them eighty floors up. Marisa found herself walking next to a slim Japanese girl in a blue dress, inlaid with pearlescent flakes of seashell. Another Overworld player, just famous enough that Marisa knew her face but couldn’t quite place her name. The girl turned her nose up at Marisa and murmured to her friend in Japanese; the other girl laughed. Marisa looked away.

  “There’s Saxon Violins,” said Sahara, nodding toward a group of five tall, blond white boys laughing loudly in the center of the room. They were at least a head taller than most of the other guests, and stood in the flow of foot traffic like boulders in a river, letti
ng everyone else move around them.

  “What a bunch of douchebags,” said Anja.

  “We’re on camera,” said Jin, pointing at Cameron and Camilla.

  Anja laughed. “You think I won’t say it to their faces? Let’s go right now.” She grabbed Jin’s hand, ready to drag her across the lobby, but Sahara shook her head.

  Anja sighed, then caught Cameron’s attention and pointed straight into the lens. “Saxon Violins are a bunch of entitled dudebros, and I don’t care who hears me say it.” She flipped the camera off with her other hand, and Marisa shook her head.

  Sahara led them to an escalator, where the girls in the tightest dresses were risking their heels to avoid trying to navigate the stairs. They rode to the top and waited by the elevators, where a smiling attendant was sorting people into the six main elevators.

  “Welcome to the Forward Motion opening gala,” said the woman. She was dressed like a flight attendant, with a peaked cap perched on the side of her head. She bowed, and then looked at Sahara, her eyes flicking almost imperceptibly over the data her djinni was feeding her. “Ms. Cowan, I see your entire party is here. Are you ready to go upstairs?”

  “We are,” said Sahara, bowing back just like they’d been taught in school. “Thank you.”

  “Number four, please,” said the attendant, and turned to the next group. Marisa and the others looked for the numbers, and walked to elevator four. They seemed to have it to themselves. The other groups watched them from the sides of their eyes, everyone sizing up everyone else, and when their elevator finally came Marisa sighed in relief. They stepped inside, and the doors closed.

  “Do they all have to stare at us?” Marisa asked.

  “It’s because we’re so friggin’ gorgeous,” said Anja.

  There were no buttons in the elevator; it went where the building told it to go. Marisa thought she could feel it moving, but it was so smooth she couldn’t be sure.

  “I need to tell you that my connection speed is very poor,” said Alain.

  “Is it because of the—” Marisa stopped herself, and resent the message as a private text. Is it because of the virus?