Ones and Zeroes

by Dan Wells

  “I want to kiss you,” said Anja.

  “We don’t have a plan,” said Jaya.

  “Or even enough info to make one,” said Bao.

  Sahara shook her head. “Not yet, but we will. Look at the bracket: we don’t play until day two, so we have all of today and tomorrow to come up with something brilliant.”

  “And if we can’t come up with anything?” asked Marisa.

  “Then we hope C-Gull has something amazing,” said Sahara. “Because we’ll need it.”

  TWENTY

  The Forward Motion tournament began on Monday, and the whole world seemed to pause and take notice. As part of its mission to raise awareness for those with low or no internet connectivity, the entire tourney was being played on a private server in a carefully controlled environment, complete with artificial lag spikes and fabricated speed issues. The richest players in the world, and everyone watching them, would get a taste of what the vast world of underprivileged people had to go through every day. Bao and the Cherry Dogs joined a crowd of eager fans in the convention center, watching and cheering from their nosebleed seats while, far below in the center of the arena, the head of the Forward Motion Foundation got up to speak. His image was projected on two giant screens.

  “Opening ceremonies are so boring,” said Anja. “Seriously. Has anyone ever been to a good opening ceremony? Why don’t they just start the actual event? Wouldn’t literally everyone watching prefer that?” Nobody answered, and she shrugged. “Shut up,” she yelled at the screen, and threw a corn chip. A boy sitting in front of them turned around to glare at her, and she shouted back, “What, you want to start something?” The boy rolled his eyes and looked away.

  Marisa glanced at Fang, sitting quietly on the end of the row. They’d spent the night practicing, and in the game Fang had been her usual chipper self again, but now she was back to being quiet and closed-off.

  “That’s Su-Yun Kho!” squealed Jaya. They all looked up, and even Fang leaned forward eagerly.

  “I can’t believe you got to meet her,” said Jaya.

  “I was hacking the whole time,” said Marisa. “I barely saw her at all.”

  “But you were closer than we are now,” said Jaya.

  “We’re in the same room,” said Fang. “This totally counts.”

  “This is my cue to go,” said Bao, and stood up. “I’ll explore the building and report back—if there’s any way into the Sigan high rise, I’ll find it.”

  “Good luck,” said Marisa, and looked back at the screens. “Now we just have to figure out how to stay in this tournament long enough to matter.”

  Su-Yun Kho gave more or less the same speech she’d given at the gala, and then the ceremony ended and the tournament began. The first round was eight games, with four scheduled for Monday and the remaining four on Tuesday—including the Cherry Dogs’ first game, and MotherBunny’s bye. Today’s two games were being played simultaneously, though only one was considered a showcase: Chaewon’s team World2gether, versus the Brazilian team Rocinha Pipa, playing for the energy company Brazucar. Camera nulis buzzed around each team as Su-Yun introduced them, and they ran onto the stage waving to the crowd.

  “We get to be onstage with Su-Yun Kho?” asked Fang. “She’s going to say my name? Like, with her mouth?”

  “Are you okay?” asked Sahara.

  “Shut up,” said Anja. “She’s going to say my name, too. Don’t cheapen this for us.”

  The stage had been set up with rows of VR chairs, and each team moved to their own row and started plugging in. Marisa recognized a boy she’d seen at the gala, and now that she wasn’t preoccupied with a doomed data heist, she could look at him more closely. “João Acosta,” she said, reading his name off the screen.

  “What about him?” asked Sahara.

  “He’s gorgeous,” said Marisa.

  Sahara cocked her head to the side, considering him. “I don’t see it.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “He looks like every other guy you drool over.”

  “I’m not drooling.”

  “Who’s drooling?” asked Anja.

  “Marisa,” said Sahara. “That dude, the Spotter.”

  Anja studied him for a moment, as he sat down in the reclining chair and plugged the cable into his headjack. “I don’t see it.”

  “I’m surrounded by blind women,” said Marisa. “Fine, then: more for me.”

  “You already have Alain,” said Anja. “Save some for the rest of us.”

  “Is Alain as juicy in real life as he looked on the vidcast?” asked Jaya.

  “More,” said Sahara.

  “You don’t even like boys,” said Marisa.

  “I can still appreciate them aesthetically,” said Sahara. “I can think a painting is beautiful without wanting to make out with it.”

  “Quiet,” said Fang, “they’re starting.”

  The match was being played in the pirate version of the map—a series of sailing ships, all jumbled together and connected with cargo nets, gangplanks, and grappling hooks. The roof was made of sails and crow’s nests; the sewers were cargo holds and tunnels, filled with bilge rats the size of wild dogs. Marisa held her breath, waiting for the match to start and the first wave of pirate-shaped minions to go swarming across the screen, but instead it went to a waiting screen displaying all ten players’ avatars: World2gether on the top, and Rocinha Pipa on the bottom. A clock in the middle of the screen began a two-minute countdown.

  “I forgot,” said Marisa. “The Seoul Draft.”

  “This is where it gets interesting,” said Sahara.

  The boy in front of them turned around again. “Are you going to talk through the whole match?”

  “What?” said Marisa. “You’re not?”

  All five girls watched the screen intently, waiting to see what powersets the players chose. Chaewon, using the call sign Mago, was playing as the team’s General, with Nightmare as the Sniper. Their Guard was named Chaeg, their Spotter was Makendro, and their Jungler was Bubba. Marisa frowned. “Which one’s Bubba?”

  “The white girl,” said Fang.

  “Leggy McSupermodel?” asked Marisa. She looked at the screen, where the camera was slowly panning across the players lying still in their chairs. Bubba was almost six feet tall, dressed in super-short cutoff jeans and a sleeveless red flannel shirt rolled up to show her toned abs. “She’s going all-in on the Southern redneck thing, isn’t she?”

  “I wish we could see what powersets they’re considering,” said Anja.

  “They have to keep them secret until they lock them in,” said Jaya.

  “There it is,” said Sahara. The waiting screen showed the first round of picks, and it was all pretty standard stuff: not just standard, but safe to the point of boring. Marisa didn’t understand why these pros had chosen such lackluster powersets until she saw Chaewon’s selections.

  “An Electricity Striker with self-buffs for damage,” said Marisa. She glanced at Sahara. “I thought she was playing General? That’s a long-range Sniper build.”

  “Maybe they’re trying something new,” said Jaya, though she didn’t sound hopeful.

  “Not with those other powersets,” said Sahara. She peered at the screen, reading the info a second time, then laughed. “Holy crap. Chaewon’s trying to solo the match—she’s not supporting her minions, she’s not supporting her team, she’s just pumping out damage and relying on her Guard to keep her alive. That is total noob crap for a General, and she’s doing it in an international tournament.”

  “She wants to be the hero,” said Anja. “Kill everything herself.”

  “I wish we were playing against them,” said Fang. “We’d destroy them.” Her voice held a hint of the old fiery Fang Marisa knew from online, but then she fell quiet again.

  “They saved Nightmare for the second wave,” said Sahara. “Fifty bucks says she plays standard Sniper build, no frills, using whatever elemental powerset targets the Rocinha Pipa’s big
gest weakness. That means . . .” The girls looked at the Rocinha Pipa powersets, and Sahara clicked her tongue while she read them. “Nightmare’s going to go with . . . water-based Striker with ice-based control powers. She’ll freeze the enemy in place and wear her down.”

  “I guess we’ll see,” said Marisa. She was still getting the hang of Seoul Draft, but she always trusted Sahara to read a metagame.

  “There it is,” said Fang, as the second-wave picks popped up. “Water-based Striker with ice-based control.” She flopped her head back, clenching her hands into fists. “Tā mā de, Sahara! They’re going to lose before we even get a chance to beat them!”

  “Wait,” said the boy in front of them. His friends turned around this time as well. “Are you playing in the tournament? Wait—are you the Cherry Dogs?”

  “In the flesh,” said Sahara with a smile.

  Anja threw another chip at him. “Shut up, we’re trying to watch.”

  “Analysis,” said Jaya.

  “Rocinha Pipa’s got an awesome team,” said Sahara. “Their General and their Guard will do great in the center, supporting the minions, and all three of their other positions are built for hunting and killing players. The World2gether Guard is going to spend half the game waiting to respawn, and Chaewon’s going to spend it blind and running away. They don’t stand a chance.”

  Ten minutes into the game, they realized the truth.

  The first lag spike hit during a Rocinha raid on a World2gether turret—a pirate’s cannon, firing heavy iron cannonballs into the Rocinha minions. All five agents were gathered in one place, pouring damage into the turret while World2gether raced to respond in time, when suddenly the lag hit, and the game seemed to freeze—behind the scenes, deep in the game server, numbers were still flying and calculations were still being made, but on the screens and in the VR no one could see them, because the graphics were broken. It was only for a second, but it was enough for a dodge to be fumbled, for a power to be activated just barely too late, for the tides of the raid to turn. When the graphics snapped back into place, the Rocinha Pipa Sniper was dead, brought down by the turret, which had already chosen a new target and was blasting away at their Guard. She scrambled to heal herself, which meant she wasn’t healing her team, which meant that when World2gether arrived in a flurry of attacks they were able to take down a second Rocinha Pipa agent. Rocinha retreated, and World2gether pressed their advantage.

  “Lucky,” said Jaya.

  “Was it?” asked Anja.

  The commentators launched into a long spiel about how this kind of connectivity issue was exactly what Forward Motion was trying to call attention to. The Cherry Dogs ignored them, frowning suspiciously at the screen.

  “Let’s figure this out,” said Marisa. “What would it take for Chaewon to fake a lag spike like that?”

  “You think they’re cheating?” asked the boy in front of them.

  Fang ignored the question: “They’d need full control over the server, the connections, and the play environment. Which they have.”

  “They’d also need a way to hide it,” said Sahara. “Even running the tournament themselves, they can’t be too obvious.”

  “How do you hide fake lag that only helps one team?” asked Jaya.

  “By hitting both teams,” said Anja.

  “Let’s keep a chart,” said Sahara, blinking to open a spreadsheet. “We’ll time them, we’ll time the gaps between them, and we’ll mark each one for who it ‘helps.’”

  “Keeping in mind that they might not ‘help’ anybody,” said Marisa. “They might just be random.”

  “They might be,” said Sahara.

  They weren’t.

  By the time World2gether won the match, at sixty-two minutes thirty-three seconds, there had been exactly fifteen lag spikes major enough to disrupt play, and eight more minor ones that just caused little screen jumps. Of those fifteen, three happened at completely innocuous times, and twelve affected the outcomes of fights, with five hurting Rocinha and seven hurting World2gether. It looked balanced, but the lag spikes that hurt World2gether were all in minor fights against single agents or neutral monsters—one spike robbed Nightmare of a perfect sniper shot, and another got Bubba eaten by a sea monster. The lag spikes that hurt Rocinha, on the other hand, were mostly in team fights, resulting in multiple deaths and significant swings in the balance of power. There was nothing overt, no hard evidence of any actual cheating. And yet World2gether won, and the lag spikes were definitely a factor.

  “Check the other games,” said Jaya. “How was their lag?”

  “I was watching the other one on my djinni,” said Fang. “Canavar versus Hailztorm. The lag looked just as bad, though I wasn’t able to watch both games and keep records at the same time.”

  “I’m amazed you were able to watch both at all,” said Marisa.

  “Sorry,” said Fang.

  “It wasn’t an insult,” said Marisa.

  Fang didn’t answer.

  “Whoa,” she said.

  Marisa looked over. “What? Something in the tournament?”

  “I just got a message,” said Fang. She looked up at them, and her eyes practically shone with excitement. “From . . .” She stopped, looked at the boy who kept eavesdropping on them, and sent a message instead: From C-Gull.

  “Hot damn,” said Anja.

  “Send it to us,” said Marisa.

  Fang nodded, and a moment later the message popped up in Marisa’s eyeline:

  I only negotiate in person. Meet me Wednesday night in a bar called Lowball, by the pier in Santa Monica. Sit in the third booth on the left. I will contact you.

  That’s it? sent Sahara.

  Fang nodded.

  Meeting in public is smart, sent Sahara. If Sigan is tracking our IDs, all they’ll know is that we’re out at a bar. They won’t be able to connect us to anyone specific.

  Marisa blinked to open a search, and found images of Lowball. Immediately she wrinkled her nose. That place is a dump.

  We’re meeting a black market arms dealer, sent Anja. Where did you expect it to be?

  No, seriously, sent Marisa, and sent everyone the link as well. This is an absolute dive. Look at the photos—we’d be the only ones in the bar who aren’t black market arms dealers, or worse.

  So we give him a different place, sent Anja. Somewhere we can blend in. She blinked and searched. Perfect. There’s a pretty posh dance club, like, half a block away from Lowball.

  Posh? sent Jaya. That close to a dive?

  That’s Santa Monica for you, sent Marisa. Fang, tell him we’ll meet him there instead.

  It’s called Daze, sent Anja.

  “I don’t,” said Fang out loud. She looked intensely uncomfortable. “I don’t want to go to a dance club.”

  “It’s perfect,” said Sahara. “We go clubbing all the time, and if we happen to meet some random dude in one, no one will suspect anything.”

  “Plus we know we can get in,” said Anja. “Five hot girls in tight dresses? The bouncer will wave us right through the front door.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked the boy in front of them. “Are you going dancing?”

  “Shut up!” said Anja. “We’re delightful daredevils, we can go dancing if we want to!”

  “Can I come?”

  Anja jumped to her feet and spread her arms wide, looking over him like she was ready to tear his throat out with her teeth. “Ask me that again, blowhole!”

  The boy went pale, and moved to another row.

  Try to get him to meet us sooner than Wednesday, sent Sahara. We need to move as fast as possible if we’re going to rescue Alain.

  Fang said nothing, but took a breath and sat still, staring into her djinni. After a moment she nodded. “Okay, I sent the message.”

  Marisa sighed. “Now we just have to wait again—”

  Got a message back, sent Fang. All it says is “Daze, Wednesday.” He’ll meet you there, I guess.

  You’re
not coming? sent Marisa.

  I hate dancing.

  Bao slid into the chair on the end of their row, moving so silently Marisa hadn’t even seen him approach. “Bad news,” he whispered. “Well, not really bad, just not awesome.”

  “What did you find?” asked Marisa.

  “I found a way in from the convention center to the high rise, but it’s a maintenance tunnel. Give me some time to work out a janitor costume and I can get in pretty easy, but getting the rest of you in will be difficult. To say the least.”

  “We can’t use our contestant status to . . . I don’t know, fake a tour of the building? Or something?”

  Bao gestured at their row of seats, almost at the back of the arena. “Your contestant status didn’t even get you good seats to your own tournament.”

  Marisa nodded, and sank lower in her chair. “So. Rescuing Alain, finding Grendel, and bringing down an evil megacorp all hinge on us staying in the tournament long enough for the one person without any hacking skills to get inside the building and . . . what?”

  “Win a fencing match, drop a cutting one-liner, and swing away on a chandelier,” said Bao. “Isn’t that usually how these things go?”

  TWENTY-ONE

  The next morning the Cherry Dogs ran through the streets of LA, racing to get to the tournament on time. They’d stayed up practicing as long as they’d dared, testing different Seoul Draft strategies until Sahara finally forced them to log off and go to sleep. Marisa didn’t feel like they’d gotten enough of either—practice or sleep—but they were here. They had their chance.

  All they had to do now was win.

  The tournament was being held at a large conference center attached to the Sigan building, and they dodged through crowds of eager onlookers to reach the front door.

  “The line’s back there,” said a guard, pointing at the massive crowd behind them. “Doors don’t open for another ten minutes.”

  “We’re competitors,” said Sahara, far less out of breath than Marisa was. “The Cherry Dogs; check your list.”