by Dan Wells
“While his hearing’s still out,” said Marisa, “I have to ask you: how serious is this thing with Omar?”
“I told you,” said Anja, her eyes twitching, “I can just tweak the settings and he’s as good as new.”
“No,” said Marisa, “I mean this relationship. Is this long term?”
Anja laughed. “I hope not.”
“You don’t like him?”
“Of course I like him, I just don’t want to make this into something it isn’t. Just because I’m eating lo mein tonight doesn’t mean I want to eat lo mein every night.”
“That’s different.”
Anja laughed again. “Come on, Marisa, you fall in love with half the boys you meet, and then the next day you’re over them and ready to fall in love with someone else. I do the same thing, just . . . without the illusions.” She refocused her eyes on her djinni interface. “All I’m saying is, you gotta keep your options open. There’s too many things on the menu to just order the same one every time, right? And you never know what your favorite is until you’ve tried them all.”
“That could be a very dangerous life philosophy,” said Marisa.
“Play crazy,” said Anja. She blinked, and Omar sat up suddenly, rubbing his ears.
“Ándale, flaca, what did you do to me?”
“She was demonstrating why I don’t have a djinni,” said Bao, and pointed to Anja’s right hand. “Just stay away from that glove thingy and you’ll be fine.”
“Pobre Omarcito,” said Marisa.
“Why Omarcito?” asked Anja, unplugging the cord from his headjack. “Isn’t it just Omar? And for that matter, what’s flaca? I don’t speak Spanish, so I don’t know if I’m supposed to hit him or not when he calls me that.”
“Don’t even try it,” said Omar.
“Sorry,” said Marisa. “We’re Mexican; we have, like, seven nicknames for everything. You’re Anja, and you’re Anyita, which means ‘little Anja’ just like Omarcito means ‘little Omar.’ Flaca means ‘skinny girl,’ huera means ‘white girl,’ and loca means ‘crazy girl,’ so get used to that one because you’re probably going to hear it a lot.”
“I can handle skinny girl,” said Anja, giving Omar a kiss on the cheek. “Though obviously I’d prefer brilliant girl; let’s get our priorities straight.”
“Everyone in my family has at least three names,” said Marisa. “I’m Marisa, and Mari, and Marisita, and that’s not even counting all the little chulitas and morenas and things my mother calls me. My grandmother is abue, abuelita, and sometimes la Bruja when we know she can’t hear us. Patricia is Pati, Gabriela is Gabi, Sandro is Lechuga—don’t ask me where that came from—”
“What about Chuy?” asked Bao.
Marisa glared at him.
“Everybody knows that one,” said Anja. “It’s short for Chewbacca.”
“No,” said Bao, looking straight into Marisa’s glare without backing down. “She’s got a brother named Chuy; she mentioned him today at lunch. She told me she’d tell me later, and now is later.” He shrugged. “I’m curious.”
Marisa looked at Omar, who knew the whole story, but he said nothing. She sighed and looked back at Bao. “Chuy’s my older brother.”
“I thought you were the oldest.”
“We don’t talk about him much,” said Marisa.
“Because he’s a wookie,” said Anja.
“It’s not Chewie, it’s Chuy,” said Marisa. “It’s a nickname for Jesús.”
“Jesús as in Jesus?” Anja could barely contain her laughter. “So Jesus is a wookie?”
“Or Chewbacca was a cholo named Jesús,” said Omar, “and we just never knew it. Probably not, though, because they don’t make hairnets that big.”
Marisa shook her head, trying not to laugh. “My brother Chuy joined a gang called La Sesenta about six years ago, and my father disowned him. He won’t let him visit, he won’t let us talk to him; today at the restaurant was the first time I’ve heard him say Chuy’s name in . . . forever.”
“Your father carries a lot of grudges,” said Sahara. Marisa hadn’t noticed her come up, and wondered how much of the conversation Cameron and Camilla had recorded. She didn’t talk to Chuy often, but she knew he sometimes watched Sahara’s vidcast. She found Cameron, looked right at the lens, and blew a kiss. “I love you, Chuy.”
“You’re here!” said Anja, jumping to her feet to hug Sahara. “This is why I brought you all here tonight. Time for part two: check it out.” Anja pulled at the cheap metal chains around her neck, drawing a pair of small black headjack drives out of her shirt.
Marisa smirked, uncertain what the drives might hold. “Sensovids?”
“Better,” said Anja. “Sensovids trigger your neural pathways in little doses, making you smell things or feel things or whatever; it’s the same code I futzed with in Omar’s head a few minutes ago. But it’s only little bits to help tell a story—Bluescreen triggers them all at once, in one big rush.”
Sahara looked incredulous. “What’s the point of that?”
“The point is,” said Anja, “the buzz is amazeballs. I’ve got a bunch more inside—I had Saif bring one for everybody. Bao excluded, of course, because he’s a caveman.”
Bao nodded politely. “I’ll wait to get a djinni until after I finally figure out that ‘wheel’ contraption.”
“So, it’s a drug?” asked Marisa. “Like, a digital drug?”
Anja’s eyes lit up. “Fully digital, so there’s no medical side effects and no risk of addiction. It’s the best; I found it last night.”
“And that guy we saw leaving is your dealer?” asked Sahara.
“There’s still a medical impact, though,” said Marisa. “I mean, if it gives you a buzz that means it’s releasing endorphins—that’s a physiological response, not a digital one.”
“Everything awesome releases endorphins,” said Anja. “This isn’t any more dangerous than . . . skydiving, or having sex.”
“Both of which can be very dangerous,” said Marisa. “Are you seriously going to plug some random dude’s flash drive into your djinni? That . . . sounded a lot dirtier than I expected it to.”
“Do you realize how much malware they could store in that thing?” asked Sahara.
“Relax,” said Anja, “I’ve got my djinni wrapped in the thickest antiviral firewall digital security condom you can imagine. This morning a store tried to send me a coupon and their router caught fire—trust me, I’m protected. Here, I’ll show you.” She pulled her hair aside, exposing her headjack, and unplugged the cord she’d used earlier.
“Wait,” said Omar. “You—” He glanced at the house. “Your father will see.”
Anja furrowed her brow. “He saw me drinking your beer, too.”
“He’s asleep on the couch,” said Sahara. “Said he was going to nod off while we were out here talking.”
“Why are you so worried about my dad, anyway?” asked Anja.
“I want to know what it does,” said Marisa. “Before you use it. I’m just . . . I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I’ve already done it twice,” said Anja. “That’s why I had to get Saif to bring me new ones.”
“Please just tell me what it does,” said Marisa.
“It bluescreens you,” said Anja, shooing Omar from his chaise and sitting down in his spot. “An overwhelming sensory rush, an unbelievable high, and then boom. Crash to desktop. Your djinni goes down and takes your brain with it for, like, ten minutes. It’s the best.”
“Hang on—” said Marisa, but Anja grinned and popped the drive into her headjack.
“Play crazy,” she said, and then her arms started to twitch. A wide, almost childish smile spread across her face, and her eyes rolled back before closing luxuriously. Anja started to hum, a long, sensual mmmmm, and her legs pressed together for just a moment before her whole head and torso started vibrating. Marisa jumped toward her, grabbing her by the arms and calling out in alarm, but in that moment Anja’s
body spasmed one last time and went completely still.
“Anja.” Marisa shook her slightly, touching her cheek; Anja’s head lolled limply to the side. “Anja!”
“She’s out,” said Omar. He stared at her darkly. “Ten minutes or so, like she said.”
Sahara turned to him. “You’ve seen this before?”
Omar’s frowned deepened. “I’ve seen it around. It’s new.”
“And you let her use it?” asked Marisa.
“I’ve never even heard of it,” said Bao.
“It’s a rich-kid drug,” said Omar. “Just forget about it; she’ll be fine.”
Marisa checked Anja’s pulse, which seemed strong enough. “Is she gonna be okay?”
“She’ll be fine,” Omar insisted, “she’s just going to lie there and—”
Anja’s head straightened, and she sat up. Her eyes were unfocused, her expression blank, like she was in a trance. Marisa said her name again, but Anja only stood, turned toward the house, and started walking.
“What?” asked Sahara.
“She’s sleepwalking,” said Bao. “That’s . . . weird.”
Marisa turned to Omar. “Does that happen often?”
“How am I supposed to know?” he growled.
“She’s gonna fall in the pool,” said Sahara, jogging after her as quickly as she could in her heels, but Anja navigated the backyard flawlessly. Marisa shucked off her own heels and ran to catch up, the boys trailing behind, everyone burning with curiosity to see what the sleepwalker would do. Anja opened the door, walked inside, and pulled the second Bluescreen drive up out of her shirt. She yanked on it to snap the chain, all the while walking straight toward the couch and her napping father.
“She’s going to plug it into her dad,” said Sahara, covering her mouth in shocked disbelief. “That’s the funniest damn thing I’ve ever seen.”
Anja reached her father, turned his sleeping head, and lined up the drive with his headjack.
“Anja, don’t!” yelled Omar. The sleepwalking girl faltered, just for a second, and in that moment her father woke with a start.
“Nein?” he asked, looking at them in confusion. “What are you doing?”
Anja lunged for him again, but by now Omar had reached her, grabbing her wrist before she could plug him in.
“What is going on?” Anja’s father demanded, standing up with a frown. “What is wrong with Anja?”
“She’s been drugged,” said Omar. He wrested the Bluescreen from her hand and threw it to the other side of the room. “We need to get her to a bed; I don’t know how long this sleepwalking trip is going to last.”
“Drugs?” asked Mr. Litz. He looked at Marisa angrily. “You brought her drugs?”
“It was the guy who came right before us,” said Marisa. “We didn’t know anything about it.”
“I told her not to spend time with . . . street kids.” Mr. Litz spit the words out like they disgusted him. Anja collapsed again in Omar’s arms, her body going just as limp as the first time she’d crashed. Litz pointed at the door with a snarl. “Get out.”
“But we didn’t—”
“Get out!” Litz roared, and turned to Omar. “You, help me take her upstairs.”
“We can help,” said Marisa, but Bao pushed her gently toward the door.
“They can take care of her,” said Bao. “If we hang around, we’ll only start a fight; that’s not going to help anyone.”
“I’ll call us a cab home,” said Sahara, her voice somber. They walked to the front door and out into the yard, and Marisa watched over her shoulder as Litz and Omar carried Anja’s body upstairs.
She looked as lifeless as a doll.
FOUR
“I’m not leaving until I know she’s okay.” Marisa folded her arms and leaned against Omar’s car. “End of subject.”
“She’ll be fine,” said Sahara. “You heard what she said—she’s done it before and nothing happened. Even Omar said it was safe.”
“Este pinche pirujo tan chin—”
“That much Spanish in a row means you’re really pissed off,” said Bao, “and I know you’re mad at Omar, but he’s seen this before—”
Marisa snorted. “So he should never have let her take it.”
“But he did,” said Bao calmly, “because he’s seen it before, and he knows that it’s safe.”
“Taxi’s here,” said Sahara.
“I’m not leaving until I hear from her,” Marisa repeated. “You can go if you want, but I’m—” She stopped abruptly, as a small flashing icon popped up in the corner of her vision. “Wait, I just got a message—” She stopped again, frozen in surprise at the name on the icon.
“Is she okay?” asked Sahara.
“It’s not her,” said Marisa. She looked up. “It’s from Chuy.”
Bao’s eyes widened. “Mysterious brother Chuy?”
Marisa glanced at Cameron and Camilla, still hovering over them. She nodded wordlessly, and blinked on the icon. The message opened and expanded, four tiny words glowing softly in the center of her djinni display:
We need to talk.
Marisa hadn’t talked to Chuy in months—they’d been friends for most of her childhood, even after their father had kicked him out, but then he’d had a kid, and Cherry Dogs had started trying to go pro, and with one thing or another she hadn’t heard from him in . . . well, not since Christmas, and not for nearly a whole year before that. To hear from him now, though, after everything that had happened in the restaurant . . . it wasn’t a conversation she wanted to have in public.
Sahara took a step toward the waiting autocab. “We’re losing money on this taxi.”
“I can’t—”
Another icon popped up, from Anja this time, and Marisa blinked on it immediately:
I’m fine, get out of here before my dad calls the cops.
“Anja says she’s fine,” said Sahara.
“I think she sent it to all three of us,” said Bao, looking down at his handheld phone. He looked up uncertainly. “You think he’d really call the police? I’ve got a record I can’t afford any more marks on.”
“It doesn’t matter, because we’re leaving,” said Sahara. She put a hand on Marisa’s shoulder. “You gonna be okay?”
“I’m not the one who—” Marisa took a deep breath, glancing at Anja’s house, then back to the brief, ominous message from her brother. She didn’t want to leave, but she had to answer him, and not just with another text. She shot one last look at the house, and nodded. “Yeah, let’s go.”
They climbed into the autocab, and Marisa sent Chuy a quick message:
Sure thing. Call you in an hour.
Bao gave the autocab their addresses and it rolled away smoothly; an adlink popped up in the corner of Marisa’s vision, the cab offering to connect her music library to its onboard sound system, but she blinked it away. Sahara had apparently accepted the invitation, as one of her current favorite singers started crooning in the background. Ever the entertainer, Sahara faced her camera nulis directly and started talking, recapping the day in a bubbly final-thoughts speech. If it were any other friend, Marisa would have been hurt, but she knew Sahara was being kind; she was keeping the cameras and the attention on herself, giving Marisa a chance to think in relative privacy. Bao also seemed to sense her need for silence, or was lost in a reverie of his own.
Marisa couldn’t help but fear the worst from her older brother’s message. Maybe what her father said had angered Calaca, and he’d gone to take it out on Chuy? Maybe La Sesenta was overstepping their bounds because of pressure from another gang, and Chuy had been caught in the crossfire? Or maybe it wasn’t Chuy, but his girlfriend or their baby?
Marisa worried herself into a panic, and when she couldn’t stand it anymore she blinked into her djinni’s message history, searching for Chuy’s ID code, and traced it backward to find where the call had initiated. The GPS coordinates placed him in Mirador, within a hundred yards of his apartment—she could narr
ow it down even closer if she was willing to break a few laws, but the equipment she needed to cover her tracks was at home, and this was enough for now. He was likely calling from home, or close to it, so he was probably safe. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he’d just seen her talking about him on Sahara’s vidcast, and wanted to say hi. She took a slow, deep breath, and waited.
The autocab dropped her off first, and she gave Bao a hug and Sahara a quick kiss good-bye before stepping out onto the sidewalk. She waved as they drove away, promising to ping them later, and was so preoccupied with thoughts of Chuy that she opened her front door without remembering to engage her “sneak in quietly” protocol; Olaya instantly registered her entrance, updated the family list, and Marisa sighed as she heard a high-pitched “Mari!” from the back of the house. Her youngest sister, Pati, came squealing down the hall and tackled her with a high-speed hug.
“Mari, you’re home so early! Did you have fun? Did you kiss any boys? Was Bao there? Please tell me you didn’t kiss Bao because I love him and he’s mine and you can’t have him.” She was dressed in old jeans—hand-me-downs from Marisa—and a faded Overworld T-shirt.
Marisa sighed, and hugged Pati back before turning toward the stairs. “I didn’t kiss anyone.” Pati hung on tight, making it hard to walk, clutching Marisa tightly around the waist and babbling on without a pause for breath.
“I thought you weren’t going to be home until really late but you came home so soon it’s not even my bedtime yet so we can hang out and I can do your hair and you can teach me how to do my makeup because I always put on too much but you never do you’re gorgeous and I got a new program on my djinni do you want to see it it takes pictures and I can animate them and leave them on shop windows so everyone can see them—”
“You know I’d love to, kiddo, but tonight’s not going to work.” She maneuvered up the stairs as best she could with her sister still wrapped around her, pausing halfway through to kick off her heels. One of the nulis would get them later. “I’ve got some calls to make.”