Ones and Zeroes

by Dan Wells

  “Zubububububerk,” said the cab.

  “He’s talking too fast for the app to translate him,” said Anja.

  “He did that in the building, too,” said Jun.

  “He’s overclocked,” said Marisa. “So in addition to being an unstoppable killing machine, his brain moves ten times faster than ours.”

  Anja’s eyes went wide. “Overclocking is punk rock. It burns out your brain in, like, seven years.”

  “Five,” said Marisa.

  “It’s also super illegal,” said Jaya.

  Bao leaned back heavily, putting his hand over his face. “I can’t believe we let ourselves get involved in this.”

  “It’s okay,” said Marisa. “Sahara’s little ruse is going to get us off the hook, for the time being at least, so all we have to do is rescue Alain.”

  The cab slowed. Marisa looked out the window and saw Anja’s house. “Gracias a dios,” she sighed. The lights were on, and the streets were empty.

  “Looks like we’re safe,” said Sahara.

  “But for how long?” asked Bao.

  “Okay,” said Marisa. “Let’s figure this out. We know what Sigan wants from him, right? They want his underworld contacts. All the arms dealers and freedom fighters and who knows what else that he works with—and since they’re not exactly subject to the law, they can go to any lengths they want to get it out of him. Their trick with Renata didn’t work, so now what? They’ll . . . I don’t know, download his djinni storage?”

  “If he’s smart, he’s wiped the memory,” said Anja.

  “Then all they have left is to beat it out of him,” said Marisa. “They’ll interrogate him, they’ll torture him, they’ll break him any way they can, and when they’re done he’ll just disappear. Nobody knows they have him, so they can do whatever they want.”

  “We have to contact this C-Gull person and hope he can help,” said Jaya.”

  “Dababibiburgurgurdle,” said the cab.

  “I could listen to that all day,” said Anja. She jerked upright suddenly, staring at the screen. “Scheiße, that’s Chaewon.”

  They all looked back at the screen, and there was Kwon Chaewon, still in her party dress, looking as cheerful and chipper as ever.

  “Are you Renata?” she asked, then smiled and nodded. “Thank you so much for your help.” Another pause. “The fee is contingent, of course. Were you able to get the information we need?”

  “I hate them both,” Sahara mumbled.

  “What about the girls he was with?” asked Chaewon. “I need to know if this was all a plan to ruin my tournament.”

  “‘Her’ tournament,” said Anja. “Because of course it is.”

  Chaewon’s eyes practically sparkled with joy. “That’s too bad, but it doesn’t matter. They’ve already put out a story about how this was all a stunt, planned with our help, and we’re going to go along with it. It’s the only way we can keep Alain here without involving the police.” She turned to Park. “Mr. Park, get something out of him that my father can use to end this little crusade against the company. By any means necessary.”

  “See?” said Marisa. “They’re going to beat him.”

  “Hbd?” said Park.

  “That’s up to you,” said Chaewon, smiling like a beauty queen. “The police don’t know we have him, so it doesn’t matter what condition you leave him in. And the walls of that room are quite soundproof.”

  “Something is very wrong with her,” said Bao.

  Renata must have said something, because Chaewon looked back at her suddenly. “Please don’t talk to me. You can go away now.”

  Renata didn’t move, and a moment later Chaewon’s serene smile faltered for the first time.

  “Of course there will be consequences,” said Chaewon. “For starters, they’re out of the tournament.”

  “No,” said Sahara.

  “We’ll spin it as part of the so-called publicity stunt,” continued Chaewon. “If the stunt was the only reason they were invited into the tournament, well, now the stunt is over. The Cherry Dogs will not be playing.”

  She turned and walked away, and Mr. Park led Renata to an elevator.

  Marisa fell back, closing her eyes.

  “So it worked,” said Bao. “They saw our story, and they’re running with it—no charges filed, no overclocked thugs coming to carry us away in the night.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Jin insisted.

  “Weren’t you listening?” said Sahara, her eyes like fire. “We got kicked out of the tournament!”

  “Are you serious?” asked Jun. “You’re not going to jail, Sahara, or into a secret cell like Alain. I’d say that’s a win.”

  “Yeah,” said Sahara, looking out at the darkness. “We’re real winners.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Marisa curled up in an overstuffed leather chair in Anja’s living room, wrapping herself in a blanket and sipping a bottle of Lift to stay awake. The rest of her friends were scattered around the room in similar states of exhaustion and shock, silently staring at the wall or blinking on their djinnis as they tried to recover from the disaster the evening had become. They’d failed in their mission, and been kicked out of the tournament to boot. One ally had betrayed them, and the other was being held in an impenetrable high-rise prison. They couldn’t even go to the police without admitting to a long list of cybercrimes.

  Marisa took another sip of Lift, feeling the carbonation crackle in the back of her throat. Only one thing left to do: she braced herself, and unblocked her parents from sending her messages.

  The flood of incoming messages wasn’t nearly as bad as she’d expected: five or six from her mami, two from her papi, and ten or so from Pati. She read the first couple from her mother, but they were all just variations of the same basic theme: What’s going on? Are you okay? Unblock me right now! Marisa closed the rest without reading them and started a voice call. Guadalupe picked up on the first ring.

  “Marisa! How are you! Are you okay!”

  “Yes, Mami,” said Marisa. She spoke softly, so she wouldn’t bother the others. “We’re at Anja’s house, healthy and safe.”

  “We’ve been tracking your djinni’s GPS,” said Guadalupe. “Your father’s practically tearing his hair out.”

  “That’s why I called you instead of him,” said Marisa.

  “He’s not mad, he’s worried.” Marisa’s mother sighed. “Corazón, do you honestly think we’d be angry before we were concerned about you? We love you, and we want you to be safe no matter what happens.”

  Marisa felt a tear roll down her cheek. “Gracias.”

  “Te amo,” said Guadalupe. “Now, for the love of all that’s holy, will you please tell me what happened tonight? Did Sigan really hire you for a publicity stunt?”

  Marisa nodded to herself. Her parents had heard the story already; news traveled fast, she thought, but then she supposed they’d probably been actively looking for news about it. She hated lying to her mother, but it was for the best. “Yeah,” she said. “Not really hired; we didn’t get paid—it was publicity for us, too. To help spread the word about the Cherry Dogs.”

  “Were you safe?” asked Guadalupe. “It looked so real—”

  “We were tied to nulis hidden just out of frame,” said Marisa, digging deeper into the lie. “We were totally super-amazingly safe.” She thought back to that sickening feeling of plummeting through the air, unsupported and certain she was about to die. “Totally safe.”

  “You should have told us,” said Guadalupe. “Sigan should have told us—how do they justify asking a bunch of teenagers to do something like that without even once contacting their parents? At least tell me they’re not making you do any more stunts, because you are one hundred percent prohibited from anything like that ever again.”

  Marisa felt a twinge of despair, and closed her eyes. “No more,” she said softly, and told her the same lie Chaewon had told Renata: “We were never really in the tournament; it was all just part of the
stunt.”

  “Really?” asked Guadalupe. “This article doesn’t say anything about that.”

  “Just wait,” sighed Marisa. “It will.”

  Guadalupe read the article aloud: “‘A prepared statement from the Forward Motion Foundation states, “The Cherry Dogs are delightful daredevils both in the game and out. We’re delighted to have them as a part of Forward Motion, and we look forward to matches just as thrilling as this nuli dive.”’”

  Marisa sat bolt upright. “What?”

  “It sounds like you’re still in the tournament to me,” said Guadalupe.

  “We’re still in the tournament,” said Marisa loudly, waving her hands to get her friends’ attention. “Everybody search it—look up every article about the nuli dive!” Sahara and the others stared at her, frozen in mid-movement, eyes wide from shock, then collapsed in their chairs and began blinking rapidly, searching for any scrap of news they could find.

  “What are you talking about?” asked Guadalupe. “Wasn’t this part of the plan all along?”

  “Of course it was, Mami, I love you, I’m sleeping at Anja’s house tonight, bye.” She blinked to end the call, and scrambled to start a news search of her own.

  “Great Holy Hand Grenades,” said Sahara.

  “Is it true?” asked Marisa. She found a link and blinked on it.

  “I think I found it,” said Jin.

  “They call us ‘delightful daredevils,’” said Anja. “Is that a compliment or are we being patronized?”

  Marisa read an article about the press release, and then the press release itself, and then watched a news clip where an anchorwoman recounted the whole story and showed some of the dive. She shook her head. “Is this real?”

  “How are we still in the tournament?” asked Anja. “I called Chaewon’s father a cut-rate ladyboy prostitute, and that wasn’t even the worst of it.”

  “It’s real,” said Sahara. Marisa looked at her, and saw her friend sitting stock-still, her eyes unfocused. Her jaw was hanging open.

  “What did you find?” asked Marisa.

  “I got an email,” said Sahara. Her eyes refocused on Marisa’s face. “From Nightmare.”

  Marisa frowned, and stood up to walk toward her. Her body still ached from the crash landing, but she didn’t even care. “What does it say?”

  Anja and the others crowded around Sahara as well, and Sahara read out loud: “‘I couldn’t care less about you, or your team, or this idiotic tournament. The whole thing’s a joke. I didn’t come here to win, and I didn’t come to play paid BFF with some rich báichī—I came here to beat you, and I can’t do that unless you play. I don’t have a lot of strings to pull, but I pulled them, and Chaewon is mad as hell, but you’re back in the tournament. Don’t mess this up again.’”

  Marisa was speechless.

  “Wow,” said Bao. “Score one for old grudges, I guess?”

  “How’s this even possible?” asked Jun.

  “Zi’s one of the best Snipers in the Asian leagues,” said Sahara. “I guess she has pull.”

  “And Chaewon can only do so much,” said Anja. “Based on the search results we all just ran, that nuli dive was huge news. The tournament’s probably overjoyed to have us on the roster.”

  “So . . .” Marisa shook her head. “So what do we do now?”

  Sahara nodded, and straightened in her chair. She was back in leadership mode, and her eyes practically shone with determination. “We go to sleep, we pick up Fang and Jaya from the airport, and we practice like crazy women. The brackets go up tomorrow, so we’ll know exactly what we’re up against.”

  The Los Angeles airport was larger than some cities; it had seven terminals, 329 gates, and more shops and restaurants than Mirador did. Marisa, Anja, and Sahara took a cab to one of the international terminals and waited in a little cafe for their friends to emerge from customs.

  “How are we going to recognize them?” asked Anja. “You’ve never met them, right?”

  “Never in person,” said Sahara. She had only one nuli today: one of Cameron’s rotors had been damaged when Sahara grabbed it in the fall, so only Camilla, newly recharged, was hovering over them filming.

  “I did a videoconference with Jaya once,” said Marisa. “I can’t remember why. Djinni calls are so much easier.”

  “They’ll recognize us, at least,” said Sahara. “They watch the vidcast all the time.”

  It was nearly six a.m. when passengers started trickling out of the doors and into the arrivals area, clutching their bags, eyes red from the overnight flight. Marisa sat up straighter, wishing she’d thought to put some makeup on—early morning or not, this was going to be her first time meeting two of her best friends in real life. She wanted to make a good impression. Even her clothes were a disaster, since all she had to wear were Anja’s clothes, and she was at least two sizes larger than her stick-thin friend. She shrugged. Judging by the state of the people coming through the customs door, Jaya was bound to look as disheveled as she was.

  That’s when a tall, long-legged Indian woman stepped out of the doors, dressed in vibrant orange and blue and looking almost impossibly elegant. Her trousers and blouse were both loose, swishing around her like a dress, and even her long hair looked brushed and lustrous. On her forehead was a large blue panel, like a diamond or a gem, which contrasted gorgeously against her light brown skin.

  “Of course,” Marisa mumbled.

  Jaya looked around, then saw them and squealed, running toward them with her arms stretched out for a hug. Her suitcase followed, a little rolling nuli programmed to follow close behind its owner. Marisa’s fatigue seemed to melt away, and she couldn’t help but smile and jump to her feet, Anja and Sahara close behind. They wrapped each other in a tangled hug, the overeager suitcase bumping into their legs like a puppy.

  “It’s so good to see you!” said Jaya. Now that they were closer, Marisa could see that Jaya must have touched up her makeup right before the plane landed, as she looked impeccably sophisticated. She also was, Marisa couldn’t help but notice, visibly older than the other girls. The three Cherry Dogs who lived in LA were all seventeen, and while Marisa had known that Jaya was twenty-two, she’d never really thought about it. Confronted with the difference in person, it suddenly felt like a gulf between them.

  Jaya, for her part, didn’t seem to notice or care. “Sahara!” she shouted. “You’re every bit as classy in person as you are on the vidcast. Classier!” She opened her eyes wide, and clamped her hand over her mouth. “Unless that’s an insult! I didn’t mean it as one! You look wonderful on the vidcast as well!”

  “Thanks,” said Sahara, smiling broadly. “You look incredible, too. How can you possibly look so good after a red-eye flight over the Pacific Ocean?”

  “And across the international date line,” said Jaya, nodding solemnly. “It’s Sunday again, right?” She laughed. “I’ve traveled into the past!” She turned to Anja. “Your hair looks so much wilder in person! I love it!”

  Anja wiggled her eyebrows, rubbing her half-bald head with one hand. “Did you have a good flight?” she asked. “Pacific flights are so much better than Atlantic ones.”

  “This is my first one,” said Jaya, “but it seemed fine to me. I’ll need to thank your father for the millionth time when I see him. It was definitely smoother than those little planes we have that jump around from city to city.”

  “Does India have hypertubes?” asked Sahara. “That’s how I first came here from Boston, and they’re great. It’s like riding in an elevator.”

  “We do,” said Jaya. “I think I like planes better, though—they’re more exciting.” She looked at Marisa and smiled warmly. “What do you prefer?”

  “I’ve actually never left LA,” said Marisa. She shrugged. “So, cabs I guess.”

  “Honestly?” said Sahara. “The best local travel is Omar’s car—but only if Omar’s not in it.” They all laughed.

  “So,” said Jaya. “I’m in town for a week, a
nd we can only spend so much of that time playing Overworld. What are we going to do? I’m ready to party!”

  “Parties will be partied,” said Marisa. “Starting with a party in my restaurant. Have you ever had Mexican food?”

  “I have,” said Jaya, pointing at her emphatically, “and it was terrible.”

  Marisa raised an eyebrow. “Where’d you have it?”

  “Chennai,” said Jaya, looking guilty. “So I assume it was not the most authentic Mexican food in the world?”

  “Oh, honey,” said Sahara, “you have no idea. And San Juanito’s the best in LA.”

  “We pay her to say that,” said Marisa with a laugh. “Five bucks off her rent for every customer she brings in.”

  “After the restaurant we’ll take you to see a little of Mirador,” said Anja. “The lovely warehouse district, and the many five-star drug dens.”

  “It’s not that bad,” said Marisa.

  “And with our drugs duly purchased,” said Anja, sweeping on with her plans without responding to Marisa, “we shall put on our finest dresses, show off our finest legs, and go to the finest nightclubs in LA, there to shake our finest assets at some—let’s face it—relatively midrange boys.”

  Jaya laughed. “Not the finest boys? Where are they?”

  “They’re all at home,” said Anja, “trashing government websites and leaking corporate secrets.” She shook her head dramatically. “Definitely not in the clubs, but, you know: love the one you’re with.”

  Marisa laughed, and then Jaya’s suitcase bumped her legs again and she stepped aside to let it past. As she did she saw a little girl, almost lost inside of a large, shapeless hoodie, watching them from across the hall. Probably a beggar, she thought, and felt suddenly uncomfortable to be wearing Anja’s expensive clothes.

  “Where’s Fang?” asked Anja.

  “Her plane landed about the same time Jaya’s did,” said Sahara, glancing at the giant arrivals display on the wall nearby. “She should be here by now.”

  “The customs line is ridiculous,” said Jaya. “My plane and hers, and at least one or two others. Maybe she’s still in there.” They turned and looked around at the crowd, and Marisa’s eyes fell on the girl in the hoodie again. She peered closer this time, and saw that the girl probably wasn’t a street rat like she’d thought—her shoes were nice enough, and she had a backpack and a small suitcase with a long handle. She just stood like someone who didn’t belong there, her shoulders hunched, her face hidden, her chin tucked low like she was trying to curl in on herself and disappear. She acted like she didn’t want anyone to see her, which made it all the more strange that she was standing in the middle of the hall, staring at them so conspicuously.