Ones and Zeroes

by Dan Wells

  Alain paused, waiting while his crippled djinni downloaded the text, then nodded and sent one back. Yes. I won’t be able to search the database.

  Jin sent a message: I’ll still be connecting to Marisa. Can you find the files instead of him?

  If he tells me what to look for, sent Marisa. She didn’t like that plan—it gave her less time to search for Grendel.

  The elevator opened, and they stepped out onto the eightieth floor. Marisa gasped at the sight of it: beyond the small elevator alcove, the entire floor seemed to consist of a single hall, the high ceilings dripping with chandeliers, the walls covered with an alternating pattern of loose drapes and flat fabric screens. The screens lit up with a series of images, some of them scenes from Overworld games, others glamour shots of the players at the gala. Marisa didn’t remember anyone requesting glamour shots from them, and wondered if Sigan had found them on their own . . . or if the Cherry Dogs would be left out of the rotation.

  The hall was filled with round tables and chairs, and in the center a long black buffet was practically overflowing with tiny bowls of various sizes and shapes, each filled with bite-sized morsels of a different food: grilled abalone, pickled water radish, spicy beef in red bean jelly, pan-fried gingko berries, and hundreds more. Marisa could smell it from across the room, and it made her mouth water.

  “I don’t see her,” said Jin.

  “Yu-Sun Kho?” asked Sahara.

  “Yeah.” Jin scanned the room intently, looking at every face, but Kho wasn’t there. She sighed. “I was looking forward to meeting her.”

  Marisa sent her a message: I’m so sorry.

  Jun will tell me all about her, sent Jin. She smiled, but her smile was sad. I guess this is it.

  You’re the best, sent Sahara.

  I’m jealous, sent Anja. I hate these parties. You get the fun job.

  Jin smiled again, then said loudly: “I need to touch up my makeup. I’ll see you in a minute.” She walked toward the end of the hall, holding her bag tightly, searching the room one last time for a glimpse of Su-Yun Kho. She turned a corner, and a moment later her ID disappeared from Marisa’s group chat window. A few seconds later it reappeared.

  Hey, girls. It was the same ID, now switched from Jin to Jun.

  All clear, sent Sahara. Come on in.

  Be careful, sent Bao. And the rest of you take care of her. Of both of them.

  Always, sent Marisa.

  “Time to mingle,” said Sahara. Jin would be making her way down through the fire stairs by now, ignored by the building because she had no ID to scan, and it would be at least half an hour before she found a workstation to log in to. Would she be okay? Marisa took a deep breath, determined to look as normal as possible while her stomach was tied in nervous knots.

  “Spread out,” said Anja, eyeing a group of boys near the side wall. “Talk to people. We may as well enjoy ourselves.”

  “I think that’s Sila Terzi,” said Sahara, pointing to a group standing by one of the tables. “She’s the Guard for Canavar—that must be the whole team.”

  “Who are they playing for?” asked Marisa.

  “I’m not sure,” said Sahara. “I want to say . . . Tandon? But that’s an Indian company; Canavar’s Turkish.”

  “Eagle, then,” said Anja. “Come on, let’s go say hi.” She dragged Sahara toward them, but Marisa looked at the food again.

  “Hungry?” she asked Alain.

  “Starving,” he said. “But I’m not really familiar with this kind of food.”

  “It’s called Hanjeongsik,” said Marisa, pleased that she could remember the word. “We learned about it in International Relations at school.” She started walking toward the buffet table, and Alain stayed close by her side.

  “I never had that subject,” he said.

  “Typical,” said Marisa.

  “Why do you say that?”

  She turned to look at him. “Well, that’s the whole stereotype, right? I mean, you know what people say about France?”

  “That it’s a glorious country with a rich history?”

  “That you think you’re better than everyone,” said Marisa.

  “Maybe fifty years ago,” said Alain. They reached the table, and he picked up a small porcelain plate and a pair of metal chopsticks. “Things have changed. We’re insular, but only because we fight to preserve our culture.”

  Marisa picked up a plate and chopsticks of her own, surveying the vast array of food choices. “You don’t see how that makes you seem standoffish?”

  “I don’t know that word.”

  “That you stand off from the rest of the world,” said Marisa. She took a piece of what looked like a pancake, and topped it with some sautéed squash and mushrooms. “That you keep yourselves separate.”

  “Look at me,” he said, and spread his arms slightly. “I have a French tongue, an Algerian body, an Indian brain implant, and a Chinese leg. And I’m fighting for American freedom. Of course they teach International Relations in French schools—but I didn’t go to school.”

  Marisa cringed, mentally kicking herself for jumping on his comment in such a rude way. She’d only meant to tease him a bit, but Alain was so serious all the time he was practically unteasable. She looked at his face, at his strong chin and cheekbones, and said the only thing she could think of.

  “You have a French tongue?”

  “Was I using that phrase wrong? I mean I speak the French tongue.”

  “Do they teach classes in that, too?”

  Alain stared at her a moment, and then that subtle smile crept onto his face. “Are you asking for private lessons?”

  Another voice blared in Marisa’s ear: “You’re Heartbeat, right?” She turned and saw a group of five people, four boys and a short teenage girl, staring at her with their arms folded. The white boy in the middle spoke again. “From the Cherry Dogs?”

  Marisa nodded, caught by surprise. “Yeah.” She reminded herself to smile, and moved her chopsticks to her left hand so she could hold out her right to shake. None of them took it.

  “We’ve watched your games,” said one of the boys. Marisa recognized them from the net; they were a pretty successful team called Your Mom. The boy who’d spoken was Esteban Diamante, from Mexico. “You’re better than I expected,” he said, “but you’re not going to win.”

  Marisa raised her eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

  “We loved the drone launch you did,” said a black boy standing in the back. Juan Moreno, from Aruba. “It was clever. You could probably do pretty well in exhibition games.”

  Marisa turned squarely toward them, planting her feet solidly on the floor. “But not in real ones, you mean.”

  “My name is Alain,” said Alain, stepping in and holding out his hand. They didn’t take it, either, but instead of dropping it like Marisa had, he pushed it forward, advancing toward them, until finally the white boy shook his hand.

  “I’m Ethan Sproat,” he said. “Sproatagonist. General of Your Mom.”

  “Excuse me?” asked Alain.

  “That’s the name of a team,” said Marisa. “You guys are playing for NovoGen, right?”

  “Your Mom is playing for NovoGen,” said the short girl. Maija-Liisa Nomura.

  “That’s what I just said,” said Marisa.

  “That’s what Your Mom just said,” said Nomura.

  Marisa struggled to control her anger.

  “Obviously anything can happen,” said Diamante, “but the numbers don’t lie. The semifinals will come down to us, MotherBunny, World2gether, and Saxon Violins.”

  “Bunch of douchebags,” said Sproatagonist.

  “You don’t think the Cherry Dogs have a shot?” asked Marisa.

  “I don’t think the Cherry Dogs have a prayer,” said the fifth player. Javier Mixco, if Marisa remembered his name correctly.

  “We don’t want to be enemies,” said Moreno, “but we’re not really here to make friends, either.”

  “I never would have gu
essed,” said Alain.

  “The final game is probably us and MotherBunny,” said Diamante. “Maybe us and Saxon Violins, depending on how the bracket works out.”

  “That’s a bet I’ll take,” said Marisa. She thought their own chances were weak, at best, but couldn’t resist a sudden bit of grandstanding. “I say the Cherry Dogs are going to win the whole tournament.”

  “Your Mom is going to win the whole tournament,” said the girl.

  “That’s . . . not an insult,” said Marisa.

  “No,” said Sproatagonist. “It’s a fact.” He gave a thumbs-up, and smiled with incongruous cheer. “See you around; enjoy the party.” The five of them turned and walked away, and Marisa watched them go with her mouth hanging open.

  “What on earth was that?” asked Alain.

  “I think that was trash talk?” said Marisa. “I honestly don’t . . .” She frowned and turned back to him. “I honestly don’t know if I’m offended or confused.”

  “I’m confused by this entire thing,” said Alain, looking around at the party. “Is this typical of Overworld? Huge parties like this?”

  “Never,” said Marisa, looking back at the buffet and adding a plum to her plate. “Most tournaments are completely online—we’re only meeting in person now because that girl wants to throw herself a party.” She pointed with her chopsticks at one of the screens on the side wall, currently showing a fifteen-foot photo of Kwon Chaewon. She looked so meticulously cute Marisa wanted to throw something at her.

  Alain glanced at the photo, but looked back at the food quickly. He picked up a short rib and some bamboo shoots in a persimmon dressing. “Who’s she?”

  “Daughter of the Sigan CEO,” said Marisa. “Everything we’re doing tonight, and as far as I can tell the entire tournament, is her personal fantasy: she wants to play with the pros, win a tourney, and meet some celebrities, so she bought her way into it.”

  “So did you,” said Alain.

  “Chaewon is—wait,” she said. “We’re doing this so that we can . . . well, to help you, for one thing.”

  “And to play with the pros and meet some celebrities,” said Alain. “I’m not saying it’s bad.”

  “You’re equating me with Kwon Chaewon,” said Marisa. “That’s the same thing.”

  “I’m not trying to insult you,” said Alain.

  “You don’t have to try,” said Marisa, “you’re just naturally gifted.” They’d been flirting barely two minutes earlier—what happened? She’d never seen anyone walk the line between appealing and infuriating like he did.

  Sahara and Anja returned, and Marisa knew by the scowl on Sahara’s face that something had gone wrong. She put her hand on Sahara’s arm.

  “What wrong?”

  “She’s here,” said Sahara.

  Marisa frowned, confused. “Not . . . you’re not talking about Su-Yun Kho.”

  “Not her,” said Anja, and pointed toward the front of the room. “Her.”

  Marisa looked up, at an elevated stage with a handful of camera nulis buzzing around it like flies. A small group of people was standing near it, and she recognized Chaewon. Was that who Sahara was mad about? But she’d known Chaewon would be here. It must be the person next to her. . . .

  “Mierda,” said Marisa.

  The tall Chinese girl next to Chaewon looked over and saw Marisa at the same time Marisa saw her. The girl smiled, though there was no kindness behind it, and walked straight toward her through the crowd. Her dress was sky blue and almost shockingly unadorned; her long black hair was curled up into a bun, topped with some artful wooden twigs and a tiny blue bird. It moved its beak, and Marisa realized it was animatronic. Because of course it was. She shook her head, trying not to swear again, and then the girl arrived at their group and smiled again, with all the warmth of a crocodile.

  “Nĭ hăo, Sahara.” The girl dipped her head just slightly, the barest hint of a bow. “Marisa.”

  “Zi,” said Sahara, her face plastered with a broad, fake smile. “So good to see you.”

  “I was so surprised to find your names on the tournament list,” said Zi. “I didn’t think you’d quite reached that level yet, but then I saw that a major Abendroth executive had a daughter on your team, and it all made sense.” She nodded toward Anja. “Anja Litz, I presume?”

  Anja put one chain-clad leg forward, and reached out to shake with her arm covered in leather belts and buckles. Her predatory grin was absolutely genuine. “Call me HappyFluffySparkleTime. Are you who I think you are?”

  “Yeoh Zi Chong,” said Zi, shaking Anja’s hand. “Call me Nightmare.”

  FOURTEEN

  Sahara looked at Zi with thinly veiled hatred. “It’s been a while. Still playing Overworld?”

  Marisa kept her face blank. Sahara knew full well that Zi had stayed in the game, following her successes with mounting disgust and no small amount of late-night gossip sessions, consoling themselves with ice cream Marisa had stolen from the freezer at San Juanito.

  “A bit,” said Zi, her voice innocent. “And you’ve managed to keep the Cherry Dogs together?”

  That frigid little bitch, thought Marisa.

  “We have,” said Sahara. “It’s nice to have an event like this to catch up with all our old friends from the pro scene.”

  “It is,” said Zi, and her smile showed that she knew exactly how much of Sahara’s statement had been an exaggeration. Marisa wanted to slap her. Zi turned to Alain and bowed her head. “You must be Alain.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” said Alain politely, but Marisa’s mind was racing. How did Zi know who he was? Almost instantly a message from Sahara popped up in her djinni:

  Does she have access to the guest list?

  It’s the only place his name is connected to ours, Marisa sent back.

  That only makes sense if she’s—damn it.

  I just looked at the tournament list, sent Anja. She’s on World2gether. That’s Chaewon’s team.

  Sahara kept her voice mild and diplomatic. “I noticed you’re playing for KT Sigan. I guess that explains why so many of the teams here are rating them so highly.”

  “I think we have an excellent chance,” said Zi, lowering her eyes in false humility.

  “I think Your Mom has an excellent chance,” said Marisa. Zi looked at her, a moment of shocked confusion giving way to an understanding glare. She’d clearly already met the same team the rest of them had. Marisa smiled. No wonder that Nomura girl said that all the time; it was super fun.

  “It’s too bad the rest of your team wasn’t able to make it in time for the party,” said Zi, her voice icy. “I was looking forward to seeing Wong Fang again. She is still on the team, right? It’s so nice of the rest of you to let her play.”

  “She’s one of the highest-rated Junglers in non-league play,” said Marisa, trying to keep her voice from bristling with rage.

  Zi only smiled. “Ah, yes, the good old days of non-league play. Don’t worry, you’ll make it someday.”

  Sahara started to speak, and Marisa was terrified it was going to be some very bad words, but Anja cut her off before she could say more than the F sound. “So you were the old Sniper, huh? Still playing the same position?”

  “I would never claim to be an expert at it,” said Zi, lowering her eyes again. “Though I do have one of the top ten PK records in the Greater Asian Region. League play, of course.”

  “What’s PK?” asked Alain.

  “Player Kill,” said Marisa.

  Zi glanced at him, then back at Marisa. “Not a player or a fan, then. Just arm candy?” She tilted her head slightly to the side. “I never took you for the kind to use a rental.”

  Fancy party or not, Marisa was ready to punch Zi right in the face, but was saved from the scandal when Jun arrived, stepping out of the crowd like magic.

  “I’m back,” said Jun. “You would not believe the girl I was listening to in the restroom—she broke up with her boyfriend on a djinni call, right there in th
e next stall. I had to stay until I heard it all; it was like the greatest reality show ever.” She looked at Zi. “Oh, I’m sorry, you were talking to someone.” She bowed. “I’m Jin Lee.”

  “Of course you are,” said Zi. She shot a glance at Sahara. “This one’s yours?”

  “She’s a friend,” said Sahara. “Though I can understand if you’re unfamiliar with the term.”

  Zi raised an eyebrow. “Well. This was a fairly civil conversation a moment ago. I guess some people can’t let go of old baggage.”

  Anja smiled. “How did you know that’s what they called you?”

  Zi turned and walked away.

  Marisa let out a long, slow breath. “I can’t believe Nightmare’s playing in the tournament.”

  “And on Chaewon’s team,” said Sahara. “You realize what this means, right?”

  “We have to crush them,” said Anja.

  “Only if we get lucky with the bracket,” said Marisa. “You’ve seen what we’re up against—these are some of the best players in the world. Remember, we’re just here to show off what we can do, and impress some networks.”

  “We were,” said Sahara. “Now I’m here for blood.”

  “Her bird’s still here,” said Alain, pointing at the table next to them. Zi’s tiny bird-shaped nuli cocked its head at them, stretched its wings, and flew away. “Twenty yuan says it was listening to us.”

  “Then be careful what you say out loud,” said Sahara. “We don’t know how many more of those things are floating around.”

  A group message appeared from someone labeled [empty]: I’m in position. It was Jin.

  “Find a table,” said Marisa. “We can cover the fact that we’re not talking better if we’re sitting down and eating.”

  Alain led her to a nearby table, half the seats already taken by a group of Brazilian girls. Marisa tried to make small talk, but all they gave her was a sidelong glance before turning back to their own high-speed conversation. Marisa was already tired of being offended, so she adjusted her collar and pretended not to notice.

  “This isn’t bad,” said Alain, sampling the short rib he’d put on his plate. “I can’t even remember the last time I had beef.”