by Dan Wells
She shook her head. The world already belonged to the megacorps. Stop one, and a hundred more would move in, just as heartless and relentless as Sigan.
She sighed, and shook her head again. She couldn’t think like that—like the villains of the world had already won. She had to do something. She had to matter.
She rolled over in her bed, trying to fall asleep, but her mind was racing and her pillow was scorching and her blankets seemed to twist and wrap around her, and finally she threw them off and sat up. Her djinni sensed the change in position, deduced that she was waking up, and showed her the time: two thirty in the morning. She ground her teeth but didn’t lie down again. The summer heat was oppressive, even in the middle of the night, and her sweaty tank top was sticking to her chest.
“I need a drink,” she mumbled, and stood up. “And what the hell, I’m going to eat some cookies, too.” She pulled on a pair of shorts, unlocked her door, and slipped quietly into the hall and down the stairs to the kitchen.
The light was on. She frowned, and peeked around the corner of the kitchen doorway. Her father was sitting at the table, staring at the wall. A half-full glass of milk stood on the table in front of him.
She froze for a minute, not certain if she should say anything. Finally she just said, “Hey.”
Carlo Magno looked up. “Hey.” He held up a cookie with a big round bite taken out of the side. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Marisa walked in and sat down, reaching across the table for the box of cookies. “Tell me about it.”
“You realize,” said Carlo Magno, pushing the box into her hand, “that these are the last cookies we can afford. We’re down to subsistence-level shopping: only what we need to survive.”
Marisa stared at the box in her hand, trying to decide if it was worth it to eat one. She hesitated, then dumped out the entire contents on the table. Her father raised an eyebrow, and she started counting the cookies into five piles. “Pati, Gabi, Sandro, Mami, Abue.” She separated the best ones, two to a pile.
“You forgot yours,” said Carlo Magno.
“We get the rest,” she said, and swept the broken bits and crumbs into another pile. “That looks like, what, three cookies’ worth? Split it half and half.”
“I’m good,” he said, and held up his cookie again. He sighed. “I wish there were more people like you, Marisita.”
Marisa blushed, and kept her eyes on the table. “I’m only trying to be like you.”
“Too much, sometimes,” said her father. “Being like me is not always a great thing.”
Marisa sat in silence, then asked the same old question she couldn’t help but ask: “When are you going to tell me about that car crash?”
“Never,” said Carlo Magno. The answer came so quickly, like he didn’t even think about it. It had been set in stone for years.
“Why not?”
“Because you’re better off not knowing.”
“Not knowing how I lost my own arm?” she said. “Not knowing why I was in a mobster’s car? Was she kidnapping me? Is she my real mother? Why won’t you tell me?”
“Guadalupe is definitely your real mother,” said Carlo Magno. “You have to trust me—if it would help you to know it, I’d tell you.”
“That’s not a decision you get to make for me.”
“And yet here I am, making it.”
Marisa stared at him, trying to summon her anger, but he looked so sad and defeated, like a slowly deflating balloon. “I’m going to find out eventually,” she said softly.
“Please don’t.”
She said nothing, and ate another fragment of cookie. Just a few more days, and she’d finally have the means to track Grendel down. . . .
“I’ve made a decision,” said Carlo Magno.
Marisa chewed her cookie. “You’re getting your ears pierced.”
“Hoo, not again,” said Carlo Magno.
Marisa laughed. “You did not have pierced ears.”
“Not while you were alive,” he said. “When I was a teenager I had a stud in each ear—little silver skulls.”
“Gang signs?”
“Nothing like that, just some tontería from my wayward youth. I took them out the day I met your mother.”
“Skulls, huh?” asked Marisa. She cocked her head to the side, studying him. “I can see you as a goth. Black hair, maybe a black choker necklace.”
“Don’t forget the black fishnet T-shirt,” said Carlo Magno, and Marisa spat out her cookie, nearly choking on it. He laughed, and leaned across the table to slap her back, helping her clear her throat. She sat back, gasping and crying.
“Don’t tell me things like that while I’m swallowing, Papi, you’ll kill me.”
“You think telling you will kill you, wait’ll I pull out the photos.”
“Please tell me you have photos,” said Marisa. “Goth Carlo Magno has to exist, and I’m way too busy to fake the photos myself.”
“I’ve decided to close San Juanito for the week,” said Carlo Magno. “I’m going to spend the rest of the week at a protest downtown.” He took another bite of his cookie, and Marisa stared at him in shock.
“You’re . . . you’re not going to open tomorrow?”
He swallowed and spoke. “Yesterday we had two customers. We spent more just turning the lights and AC on than we earned.” He shook his head. “We can’t keep going anymore. I’ve already canceled everyone’s service—you’ll keep your djinnis, because they’re already paid for, but they’ll be Wi-Fi-only starting tomorrow. And it’ll have to be somebody else’s Wi-Fi.”
Marisa tried to speak, but there was nothing to say.
“Someone’s organized a protest downtown at the Sigan building,” Carlo Magno continued. “Trying to get them to put the prices back where they were. It won’t get our service turned back on, but it might give our customers enough spare money to come in for a taco every now and then. Maybe just enough to keep us afloat.”
Marisa finally found her voice. “What can I do? I can pull some extra shifts, or . . . I don’t know, stand on the corner with a bunch of flyers?”
“We can’t afford to print out flyers,” said Carlo Magno. “The best thing you can do, honestly, is just stay in school. Get good grades. You’re good enough with computers you can get a real job—not something a nuli will take over a few months later, but a real job for a real human.” He glanced at her from the side of his eye. “And it better be a good one, because Lupe and I are going to be living with you.”
Marisa chuckled. “I’ll see what I can do. Though I honestly think I’d be better off hanging out with Anja’s neighbors, trying to land a rich husband and let him pay for everything.”
“Don’t think I haven’t thought of that,” said Carlo Magno.
“We might win this tournament, you know,” she said suddenly.
“That’s . . . great,” said Carlo Magno. “I’m proud of you.”
“The prize money is ten thousand yuan to the cause of our choice. The team already decided that San Juanito is our cause of choice.”
He said nothing.
“Papi?” She looked closer, and saw that he was crying. She jumped up and walked around to his side of the table, hugging his shoulders tightly. “I love you, Papi.”
“I love you too, mija.” He clutched her arms, then wiped the tears from his cheek. “I’m sorry I won’t be able to see you play. I’ll be right outside, though, chanting and holding signs and . . . whatever other useless gestures I can make.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “I’m sorry I won’t be there with you.”
He nodded. “Just promise me you won’t jump off the building while I’m standing there, okay? The videos were bad enough—I don’t know if my heart can take it live.”
“You know I’m not going to jump off any more buildings,” she said.
“And you know I’ll kill you if you do.”
She kissed him on the cheek. “I love you.” She stayed there for a moment, comforted by hi
s presence. Then a thought leaped into her mind, and she stood up abruptly. “You said videos. Plural.”
Carlo Magno frowned, confused. “Yeah, there’s like ten. Every building in the area caught it on their security cameras, and two or three police nulis did too.”
“Because this is LA,” said Marisa, “and there are cameras everywhere.” A light went off in her mind. She walked slowly across the room, pacing as she thought. “You said someone was organizing a protest. Do you know how big it’s going to be? Like, how many people?”
“Hundreds, if we do it right,” said Carlo Magno. “Maybe not tomorrow, but by Saturday, sure.”
“Perfect,” said Marisa. “We need them there Saturday. And reporters, and cameras, and police nulis, and maybe even some actual police.”
Carlo Magno nodded. “The more publicity the better.” He shrugged. “Maybe we do want you to jump off the building.”
“Anything for eyeballs,” said Marisa.
“I was kidding,” said Carlo Magno quickly.
“So was I,” she said, “don’t worry. But we do need eyeballs. We need everyone in the whole world watching that front plaza.”
“Why?”
“Because the first rule of getting in somewhere is knowing how to get back out again,” she said, and smiled with the first real joy she’d felt all night. “And I just found a way out.”
She went back to her room, found her djinni’s notepad app, and pulled up a number: C-Gull’s contact phone. She took a breath, asking herself if this was really the best idea. She gritted her teeth and dialed. It went straight to voicemail—no message, just a beep.
“Hi,” said Marisa, “this is . . . one of the girls from the other night. Alain’s friends. We want to add something to our order, if we still can.”
She hesitated again, then said it.
“We want a real bomb.”
TWENTY-FOUR
“Our game today’s not until the afternoon,” said Sahara. “That gives us a chance to visit Omar and . . .” She trailed off.
“Desperately beg him for money,” said Marisa.
“I couldn’t bring myself to say it,” said Sahara.
“We can’t trust him,” said Anja. The other girls were dressing up in their best “impress the rich guy” clothes, but Anja refused, and was attending the meeting in ripped jeans, a threadbare T-shirt, and an old brown work coat that looked like she’d fished it out of a garbage can. “You know what he did to us last time.”
“He screwed us over,” said Marisa. “You more than anyone. But then he helped us fix it.”
“You think that makes it okay?” asked Anja.
“Omar’s an opportunist,” said Sahara. “And we’re an opportunity he can’t pass up, no matter how much we hate the situation.”
Marisa looked at herself in Sahara’s mirror. She had almost worn her blue dress again, but she wore that every week to church, and she couldn’t stand the thought of Omar’s sister, La Princesa, seeing her in it again. She’d gone with a slim jacket and harem pants instead: black and elegant, with faux leather heels to jazz it up a little. She looked professional and competent.
And terrified.
“This is all I brought,” said Fang. Marisa looked over at her, wondering what amazing thing she’d pulled out of that tiny bag, but all she wore was another version of the only thing they’d ever seen her in: black shoes, black pants, and a baggy hoodie. This hoodie was dark green instead of dark blue, but that was the outfit’s only distinguishing feature.
“You’ve got to have something better,” said Sahara.
Fang disappeared back into the other room, and Marisa frowned at Sahara. “Now you’ve offended her.”
“This is a big deal!” said Sahara. She wore a fitted suit coat with black-and-white vertical stripes over a short black skirt and leggings. “We’re going to ask them for fifteen thousand yuan—we need to look like we’re worth it.”
“If he says one word about what I’m wearing,” said Anja, “one word, I will rip his ears off.”
“Don’t rip anyone’s ears off,” said Sahara. “Okay, listen: team meeting. This is important. Omar, and his entire family, are inhuman monsters incapable of positive emotion. They’re criminals, they’re bastards, they’re walking tire fires that we have every reason to hate.” She paused while everyone nodded, then continued. “They’re also our only shot at getting back into this tournament. I’m sorry I’m being a little curt with everyone, but: We will not offend them. We will not insult them. We will make our case and we will be friendly and attractive and whatever else we need to be to get them on our side. Nothing less, but I promise nothing more.”
“Fine,” said Anja. “Let’s go get this over with.”
The Maldonados didn’t live in a house so much as a complex, about a mile away from San Juanito in the heart of Mirador’s most well-kept area. The girls walked the entire way, and Marisa waved at the people they passed; she knew most of them, and she knew their stories. Many were losing their jobs, or even their homes, and she wondered how much longer they’d be here. So many had already gone to Mexico to look for work—how long before the rest of her neighbors followed?
“Is this it?” asked Jaya. They stopped in front of a high wall with a tall iron gate. A grizzled Mexican man in a black suit leaned against the wall, drinking something from a small box with a straw.
“This is it,” said Anja. “Brace yourself. From here, things are going to get . . . weird.”
The man with the juice box sucked the last bit up with a loud squelch. “Can I help you?”
“We’re here to see Omar,” said Sahara. “He’s not expecting us.”
The man stared at them, not leering but simply sizing them up. Marisa expected him to ask what they wanted, but he simply blinked a message inside. Apparently random groups of young women showing up out of the blue for Omar was a frequent enough occurrence not to warrant further investigation.
I hate him, sent Anja.
Juice Box blinked again, reading something on his djinni, then took another sip and spoke to them. “Síganme.” He opened the gate, and led them inside.
The brick wall turned out to be reinforced with heavy sheets of plascrete armor, carefully hidden by an artificial rain forest of trees and ferns and flowers that filled the inner courtyard. It was a shocking change from the desolate LA summer out on the street. Even the air was different: cool and soft and pleasantly humid. Juice Box handed them off to another large thug, who locked the gate behind them and then led them along a wide, clean driveway, past lush trees and a small fleet of meticulously washed autocars. Someone was in a nearby garage, the door open, washing another car, though that one looked ancient. Marisa craned her neck to look . . . yes. It had a steering wheel. She looked away, trying not to think of the sheer wealth that was on display. And they hadn’t even gotten inside yet.
The complex consisted of at least four buildings: the main house, the garage, a pool house Marisa glimpsed through the trees, and another building she couldn’t immediately identify. Another house? The guard led them to the main entrance and ushered them into a posh receiving room, where they sat primly on overstuffed couches and shivered in the air-conditioning while they waited for Omar.
Marisa sent a message to Anja: This place looks more expensive than your house.
You have no idea, Anja sent back.
This is the life, sent Sahara.
“Well,” said Omar’s voice. “Look who’s here.”
Marisa and the other girls glanced up, looking for him, and he stepped out from a nearby hallway, grinning impishly. He wore a loose collared shirt, the sleeves rolled up and his chest showing through behind the top two open buttons. He hadn’t shaved in a day or two, and his chin bore just enough stubble to look rakishly handsome. The entire look was one of calculated nonchalance, and Marisa wondered if he’d changed his clothes on purpose when he’d found out they were there. He beckoned them forward, gesturing at the room behind him. “Come on in.
I have to admit that I am absolutely dying to find out what brings you lovely ladies here today.”
“I was really excited there for a second,” said Anja, standing up, “but then you kept saying more words after ‘dying.’”
Omar grinned. “Hello, Anja. It’s been a while.”
“Don’t remind me,” she said. “I’m going to have to reset my ‘one hundred and seven days without a jagweed’ sign.”
“You’re counting,” said Omar. “That’s so sweet.”
Sahara stood. “We wouldn’t come if it weren’t important—”
“Please,” said Omar, “come into the other room. This one’s terrible.”
Marisa sighed, but they followed him into the next room, which to his credit looked far more livable: still perversely expensive, but at least it had the kind of couches you could sit on instead of just worry about getting dirty. A massive screen filled one wall, currently set to HD footage of a coral reef—probably a real-time feed, Marisa thought—and the far corner of the room was taken up with a cluster of VR chairs. Another wall held a polished wooden bar, and Omar stepped behind it.
“Can I get you a drink?”
“What, no bartender?” asked Anja.
“Anja . . . ,” growled Sahara.
“What gives?” Anja continued. “The chosen son of the Maldonado clan has to pour his own drinks? Were the shakedowns not as successful this week?”
“We’re not here to start a fight,” said Marisa, standing near the bar. “She’s angry, just ignore her.”
“How can I possibly pay attention to anyone but you?” asked Omar. He grinned at her hungrily, and she suppressed a shudder.