Bluescreen

by Dan Wells

  “You have the most expensive car in Mirador,” said Sahara, “and you call it Pedro?”

  “Pedro’s a powerful name,” said Omar. “Pedro was the first apostle.”

  Bao smiled. “So now the first apostle’s driving you around. This went from self-effacing to a power trip in, like, one second.”

  Omar laughed. “Honestly? I named it Pedro because that’s what my grandfather called his first car, some tiny little Ford, like a Festiva I think. He drove that thing everywhere; that’s how the family fortune started, hauling newspapers through some little pueblo in Texas.”

  “He was a paperboy?” asked Sahara, laughing gleefully at the idea. “When was this, a hundred years ago? I don’t think I’ve ever even seen a paper newspaper.”

  “The last one closed distribution ten years ago,” said Marisa, calling up the search on her djinni. “In Idaho, of all places. Most of them closed ten or twenty years before that, but some small towns just really wanted to keep the tradition alive, I guess?”

  “As long as you’re looking stuff up,” said Bao, “how long has it been since anyone had to drive their own car? Was the Festiva the last one?”

  Marisa caught Omar’s eye, an unintentional moment of shared . . . what? Experience? Pain?

  Bao didn’t know what he was asking.

  “You can actually still engage manual drive on cars today,” said Omar. Marisa was surprised he didn’t change the subject. “You could probably drive this one if you had a license.”

  “People still have licenses?” asked Sahara. “I mean, obviously motorcycles, but cars, too?” She looked around in obvious enthusiasm. “Where’s the . . . handles? Or joystick? How do we do it?”

  “I really don’t recommend it,” said Omar. “Cars can drive themselves more efficiently and more safely than any human operator.” He recited the line as if he were reading a marketing report, and for all Marisa knew that’s exactly what he was doing through his djinni. That, or he’d memorized all the reasons why his own personal tragedy should never have happened. “Since the move to autocars thirty years ago, fuel economy’s increased a hundredfold, and traffic jams and collisions have dropped virtually to zero.”

  “I’ve heard about car accidents,” said Sahara. “I just always figured they were due to autodrive malfunctions.”

  “Sometimes they are,” said Omar. “Other times it’s people, thinking they’re . . . I don’t know. Something. Smarter than a computer.”

  “Have you ever tried it?” asked Sahara, still oblivious to the tension slowly mounting in the car.

  “What are we going to eat tonight?” asked Bao, abruptly trying to change the subject. “Order in, or pick something up on the way?”

  Had he noticed something in Marisa’s face? She blinked her djinni over to Sahara’s vidcast, watching herself as she sat in the plush leather seats of the rolling party lounge. She looked haunted. She glanced at Omar again, wondering what he was feeling. If he was feeling anything. The silence dragged on, until finally Marisa stretched her robotic left arm across the table.

  “Yes,” said Marisa calmly, “sometimes people still drive their own cars.”

  Sahara raised her eyebrow. “That’s how you lost your arm?”

  Marisa nodded, tapping her fake fingers on the table. “I was two years old.”

  Bao’s voice was soft. “Who was driving?”

  “My mother,” said Omar. “She died.”

  “Whoa,” said Sahara, glancing almost involuntarily at the cam nulis to make sure they were catching this. Marisa could tell she was concerned—there was a good friend buried under all that media savvy—but sometimes Sahara’s vidcasting obsession made Marisa want to grind her teeth in frustration. Sahara looked back at her intently. “You never told me this.”

  Marisa shrugged, bothered more by Sahara’s attitude than by the story itself. She wiggled her fingers and watched the metal and ceramic joints as they moved up and down in sequence. “It’s not a secret, it’s just . . . not the kind of thing that comes up in conversation.”

  “Why were you in a car with Omar’s mom?” asked Sahara.

  “We don’t know,” said Marisa.

  “Why did she shut off the autodrive?”

  “We don’t know,” said Omar.

  “Why was . . . ?” Sahara trailed off. “Well. I guess we don’t know. But that certainly sheds some light on the family feud.”

  Marisa laughed dryly. “Does it?”

  “I was in the car, too,” said Omar impassively. “And my brother Jacinto; he got the worst of it, after my mother. He’s more bionic at this point than human.”

  “I had no idea,” said Sahara.

  Omar shrugged. “That’s because he hasn’t left our house in seven years.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Sahara.

  “Don’t be,” said Omar, and shook his head dismissively. “There’s nothing keeping him in there but his own insecurities. Or laziness, I suppose. And I was fine—completely unscathed.” He looked up suddenly, the old charm back in his face, and flashed Marisa a wide, devilish grin. It was like he’d turned the pain off with a switch. “Just like always, right?”

  Sahara and Bao were too shocked, or too polite, to press any further, and Omar’s abrupt change of attitude signaled the end of the discussion. He poured them each a glass of Lift, calling for an official beginning to the night’s festivities, and asked what they wanted to eat. Marisa suggested her favorite noodle place downtown, and Omar laughed but ordered some anyway, buying way too much because it was so “cheap.” Marisa couldn’t help but feel a surge of anger—she had saved all week just to be able to afford a dinner out, but to him the money was meaningless. She looked out the window, watching the city roll past: slums and shantytowns and decadent resorts. A few minutes later the delivery nuli arrived, bringing the hot white noodle boxes directly to the car as they drove. Omar insisted on paying, linking to the nuli’s credit reader with barely a glance.

  Anja lived in Brentwood with her father—not just the rich part of town, but the rich part of the rich part of town. Her father was a chief executive with Abendroth, a German nuli company that was still competing evenly with the Chinese. The nuli that brought their noodles was probably an Abendroth, Marisa realized, and the thought made her laugh. The Futura Noble carried them up the winding streets to the higher hillsides, and they watched out the windows as the trees opened up and the city stretched out before them—an endless field of buildings and lights and nulis, as far as the eye could see.

  The autocar pulled to a stop in front of Anja’s house, about twenty yards from a similar vehicle—not a Noble, Marisa thought, as it was far too small, but still some kind of Futura. Omar would know, but she didn’t want to ask him. She snapped an image with her djinni and ran it through an image search: the car was a Daimyo, a two-seater Futura built for speed. Very expensive.

  Omar frowned. “Did Anja invite someone I didn’t know about?”

  “Do you have to know about everyone she invites?” asked Marisa. She stepped out of the car just in time to see a young man walking away from Anja’s door; he wore a simple pair of gray slacks and a red silk shirt, with the cuffs folded back to reveal a turbulent pattern on the underside of the fabric. Marisa guessed he was about twenty years old, probably Indian, and shockingly good looking. Sahara stepped out behind her and nudged Marisa slyly.

  “Weren’t you looking to pick somebody up tonight?”

  Marisa was thinking the same thing, but the opportunity had appeared so suddenly, and in such an unexpected place, that she couldn’t think of anything to say. The boy looked her way and smiled in a way that made her toes curl, but walked straight to his car, not even pausing as he said, “Have fun tonight.” His accent was close enough to Jaya’s that Marisa confirmed her earlier guess about his Indian heritage. In town for business, maybe? Or another child of an executive, like Anja. She couldn’t seem to form any words, and managed only to blink a quick photo before he dropped into his car an
d drove away.

  “Thank heaven I got that on camera,” said Sahara, barely stifling her laughter. “Marisa Carneseca, Queen High Flirt of Flirtania, completely tongue-tied by the hottie in the silk shirt. Let’s play that clip again.” She paused, her eyes making tiny movements across her djinni interface. “Oh yeah.” She laughed again, and Marisa rolled her eyes, grabbing her purse and walking toward Anja’s door.

  “He looked like a blowhole,” said Marisa. “Another rich kid spending daddy’s money while the rest of LA starves to death.”

  “Kind of like Anja?” whispered Sahara.

  Marisa grimaced. “Anja’s different.”

  “How?”

  Marisa struggled to find an answer.

  “What was he doing here?” Omar mumbled behind them, slowly standing up as the Daimyo turned a corner and disappeared.

  “Jealous, Omar?” asked Bao.

  “Ándale, gringos!” shouted Anja from her doorway. The waifish blonde was dressed eclectically, as usual: instead of a club dress she wore a pair of slim vinyl pants, black with a dark blue stripe on each leg and bright metal rivets running down each side; her shirt was gray and loose and sleeveless, an almost shapeless bag that somehow worked perfectly to accentuate the figure it looked like it was hiding. Her boots were patent leather, with platforms at least two inches high. She wore two metal chains around her neck, but whatever was hanging from them was tucked inside her shirt.

  “I’ve told you before,” said Marisa. Up close she could see Anja’s fake eye—not a cybernetic enhancement, like Marisa’s, but a full replacement, just different enough to freak you out if you weren’t expecting it. And Anja loved getting close to people who weren’t expecting it. Marisa gave her a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. “You’re completely misusing that word.”

  “You’re a fourth-generation American, gringo,” said Anja, shaking her head sadly. “It’s time to face the truth.”

  “Second-generation on my father’s side. That still counts as Mexican.”

  “Whatever. Get in here already. Willkommen a mi casa.”

  Marisa stepped into the opulent foyer, trying not to feel overwhelmed by the profound sense of wealth. Sahara and the boys followed her in; Anja wrapped herself around Omar and tried to pull him into a kiss, but he politely pecked her on the cheek and nodded to Anja’s father on the couch in the living room.

  “Good evening, Mr. Litz.”

  The man looked up, surveyed them, and nodded curtly before turning back to his tablet; he wasn’t rude, Marisa knew, just very . . . efficient. Anja laughed and grabbed Omar’s face.

  “He doesn’t care, baby, come on; give it up.”

  Omar gave her a longer kiss this time, full on the mouth, and Marisa turned away with a faux gag. “This is going to be a wonderful night,” she said, “I can tell already.”

  “Let’s head out back,” said Bao, holding up the noodle boxes and gesturing toward the wide picture windows at the other end of the room. Beyond them was the back patio, the pool glowing blue in the fading light, and beyond that an intoxicating view of LA. Marisa followed him out, finding the side table already stocked with drinks—most of them alcoholic, as Mr. Litz never seemed to care what his daughter drank—and an array of snacks, mostly Chinese and Korean. Marisa picked through the bottles until she found a Lift, preferring caffeine to alcohol, and popped off the bottle cap on the corner of the table. Bao tried to do the same, and Marisa let him fail a few times before laughing, taking the bottle from his hands, and expertly levering off the cap.

  “Thanks,” said Bao, taking a swig. “I’m glad we got my inevitable emasculation out of the way early tonight.” They walked around the pool and sat down, sipping softly from their bottles and staring out over the city.

  “This house,” mused Bao, “all by itself, is worth more than . . . any given house you can point to down there. I mean honestly, right? Pick a point of light down there in the valley and the odds are this house is worth at least twice what that one is.”

  “So I could pick two points of light,” said Marisa.

  “Okay, you just made this more interesting,” said Bao. “Two is definitely too low, now that I’m really thinking about it. Taken as a unit of currency—one average lifestyle per light in the city—how many lights is this house worth? I think we’re talking double digits.”

  Marisa looked out, watching the city come to bright, electric life as the sky faded to a deep blue-black. The color of Anja’s pants, she thought, and the rivets on the sides were the stars. “Are we averaging everything together?” she asked. “The high-rises and the beach homes and the shantytowns?”

  “All of it,” said Bao. “From Bel Air to . . . well, as far as the eye can see, I guess. Mexico.”

  The city of Los Angeles had grown wildly over the decades, urbanizing every scrap of land until the street lights and pavement stretched in an unbroken tide from the beach to Moreno Valley, from Santa Clarita to the southern fringes of Tijuana. If you ignored the US-Mexican border—and most people did—the city was bigger than some entire states. Marisa didn’t know who made the official measurements, but some of the crazier clubs had held a party when LA passed Connecticut in landmass.

  A party, she realized, that most of the city’s residents couldn’t even afford to attend.

  “This house was bought with nuli money,” she said softly. “Abendroth makes industrial nulis—shipping, manufacturing, construction. If you’ve lost your job to a nuli in the last five years, you’ve probably lost it to an Abendroth. Maybe a Zhang.” She twirled her finger in a spiral, encompassing the entire property in one abstract gesture. “So not only is this house worth, what, twenty lights? Forty? It’s personally responsible for putting half of them out of work.”

  “And here we sit,” said Bao. She waited for more, but he only watched the city.

  Marisa tried to pick out the tiny light of her parents’ restaurant. She couldn’t be sure she could even see it from here.

  “There you are,” said Anja. Marisa put on her happiest face, hoping her friends could work their magic and raise her out of this sudden emotional slump. Anja sat down on the grass in front of her, heedless of stains on her designer pants; Marisa could just barely see a tattoo on her back, peeking above the hem of her shirt—a wing of some kind, but Marisa couldn’t tell what exactly. Anja changed it almost every day. Dangling past it was a djinni cable, a slim white cord plugged into her headjack and braided in with her hair. Most people kept their djinni port empty and discreet, only inserting a cable when they needed to, but Anja liked the statement. She peeled open a box of noodles. “You want to see the new toys?”

  “Is this the eye-catching mystery you promised me?” asked Marisa.

  “Part one of two,” said Anja, “though eye-catching is not necessarily the best word.” Anja held up her right hand, displaying a flexible metal mesh across her palm, like a fingerless glove. “It’s an EM field calibrated to interface with the sensory feeds on a Ganika 4 djinni. The settings are controlled on the back: one click for vision signals, one more for hearing, one more to turn it off.” She demonstrated by pressing a touch sensor on the back of the glove, though it made no visible change. “I made it yesterday.”

  “How can you tell it’s on?”

  “I can feel when the field goes on and off, it’s like a tingle in my hand. I might add a light, but I like the look now—very stealthy, no one knows that it can do anything.”

  “So it interfaces with the sensory feeds and . . . ?”

  “Turns them off,” said Anja with a smile. “If they have a Ganika 4, and if they haven’t changed the factory settings. I had to sacrifice variability for speed, but I’m still refining it. Check this out . . . Omar!”

  Bao cast a sidelong glance at Marisa. “Omar has a Ganika 4.”

  Omar arrived with a drink in hand. “I am at your command, Anyita.”

  Anja set down her noodles, jumped up, and put her right hand on Omar’s cheek. “Boom.”


  “What?” asked Omar.

  “He can’t hear a thing,” said Anja, grinning wildly at the others. “Djinnis tap into your brain’s sensory centers, which is how they can do things like the VR in Overworld—they tell you you’re seeing a city, hearing gunfire, or whatever. This little beauty simply tells you that you’re not hearing anything.”

  “Damn it, Anja, what did you do to me?” Omar was roaring now, and Marisa couldn’t help but laugh. “Mari, are you in on this too? What’s going on?”

  Anja looked over Marisa’s shoulder, back at the house, and Marisa turned to see Sahara still talking to Anja’s father, giving Cameron and Camilla a lengthy tour of the house. Even a dramatic bikini reveal could wait, it seemed, in the face of such a poshly furnished home.

  “No word about this when Sahara comes out,” said Anja. “Not that I want to hide it from her or anything. I just don’t want the whole internet to know, you know?”

  “Smart,” said Marisa. Anja spent a lot of time on darknets, delving into body hacks most people knew nothing about. Getting an idea like this perception-denier into the mainstream could be dangerous, and a showcase appearance on Sahara’s vidcast would be the first step to a potentially massive audience.

  “Anja,” said Omar, his voice impassive. “I want you to fix this now, please.” Marisa wondered if his anger was really gone, or if he was simply very good at hiding it.

  “Lie down,” said Anja, clicking off her EM glove and guiding Omar to a nearby chaise. “There you go, this’ll just take me a minute.”

  “You can’t reverse it with another touch?” asked Bao.

  “Turning the settings back on is way more complicated,” said Anja, trying to wrangle Omar into the chair. “I can do a full reboot of the sensory package, which takes forever, or I can just tweak the settings if he’ll freaking hold still.” She finally got him down, then reached up into her hair and pulled out one end of her cord, plugging it into the headjack on the back of Omar’s skull. Anja’s eyes began moving across an interface only she could see, and Marisa leaned forward.