Then a message appeared in the code, exactly like it had when she’d first encountered Alain during a hack:
Is that you, Heartbeat?
Marisa’s jaw fell open. She wondered if it was open in real life as well, or just in here.
She didn’t respond. She didn’t dare. She watched, waiting to see if another message appeared. She got three.
Heartbeat?
Marisa?
Parkslayer?
It was Renata.
TWENTY-NINE
What was Renata doing here? She couldn’t have been sabotaging Sigan—she’d betrayed Alain to Chaewon for doing that exact thing. Marisa didn’t even know what she could be thinking, messing around in their network—Renata was a hired gun, not a coder. There was no way she could even get into such a protected system.
Unless . . .
Chaewon. Renata was still working for her. When Chaewon had found out that Zi had ruined her plan to rig the match, she’d needed someone to go in and fix it. Someone who wasn’t afraid to break the law, and whose loyalty could be assured—or at least purchased. In the few minutes before the match started, Chaewon must have contacted Renata and sent her whatever permissions and security keys she needed to get full access to the building and the system, as well as rough instructions for messing with the lag spikes. She had the full run of the network. And she’d known Marisa’s tricks well enough to find her.
You didn’t think I knew about your little trick, did you? The message appeared beside the others. But Alain told me everything.
Marisa said nothing. Was Renata going to turn her in? Was she going to attack her? Marisa held her breath, waiting, and then shook her head and got back to work. She had to find the email server, and fake an order with enough authority to get Mr. Park moving. Who was his direct superior? Kwon Dae himself, the CEO?
I thought that was pretty classy of you, by the way, abandoning him to Sigan like that, wrote Renata. You never tried to reach him, and after that first night you never tried to contact me again. Real love-’em-and-leave-’em type, aren’t you?
Marisa found the email server, and searched desperately for Kwon Dae’s account.
It’s a shame, really, wrote Renata. Your team actually isn’t playing so badly. Too bad I’m about to screw them.
Wait, thought Marisa. What was she doing?
Nos vemos in hell, wrote Renata, and suddenly Marisa was bombarded with light and color and sound so jarring it seemed to explode inside of her skull. She clutched at her head, screaming in pain, and dropped to the ground. It was solid, impacting her hands and knees with a force she couldn’t possibly have felt inside of the ghostlike database. Where was she? She forced her eyes open and saw that a fight whirled around her, each shout and scream and gunshot assaulting her ears like a hammer. She dropped flatter to the ground, trying to figure out what was going on, when suddenly a train roared past, and she looked up in shock. The Red Line. She was in downtown LA, right in front of the Sigan building.
And the world had gone mad.
All around her crowds of people were running and screaming, and gunfire shattered the air in vicious bursts. Marisa scrambled to the side, looking for better cover behind a solid wall, only to stumble as an explosion rocked a nearby building. She threw herself down again and crawled the last few feet to cover.
“What’s going on!” she yelled. “What happened?”
“Heartbeat’s in trouble,” said Sahara’s voice. “Somebody grab her!”
“That was epic lag,” said Fang.
“This is the game?” cried Marisa. But this was the real world—
“I’ve got you, Heartbeat,” said Jaya, and suddenly the shimmery pink haze of a magic shield rose up around her. Jaya grabbed her by the arm, dressed in her historical Overworld costume, and hauled her to her feet. She handed her a gun—a Drachen 67 assault rifle—and pulled her toward a storefront by the edge of the plaza. “You dropped this. Now run!” Marisa followed her, pelting fire across the embattled square, and they dropped to cover again in the ruins of a battered cafe. Solipsis.
“That was the worst lag spike we’ve ever had,” said Jaya. “You’re just disoriented because we’ve never played on this map before.”
“But . . . ,” said Marisa. “I was—”
“You’re disoriented,” said Jaya again, more firmly this time. “This map is an exact replica of downtown LA, and it’s throwing you off. Just be calm.” The meaning behind her look was clear: don’t say anything incriminating, because everyone watching the match can hear us.
Marisa breathed deeply, regaining her bearings. Renata had caused a lag spike, and it had thrown Marisa back into the Overworld match to replace the bot. Exactly what they’d programmed the bot to do. “Sorry,” she said. “This is still kind of freaking me out.”
“Pretty talky all of a sudden,” said Sahara’s voice on the comm. Marisa got the hint: the bot didn’t talk, so Marisa needed to say as little as possible to help keep up the illusion.
“We lost HappyFluffy in that last skirmish,” said Jaya, “but they lost Chaewon.”
“I tell you one thing,” said Sahara, “killing her never gets old.”
Marisa was stuck in the game—and Alain was still stuck in his cell—until another lag spike triggered the bot program again and sent her back into the database. She wanted to update her friends on the status of the hack, but she had to keep it vague.
“Sorry I slipped up,” she said over the comm. “Everything’s good, though.”
“Someday you’ll have to tell me all about it,” said Sahara. “For now, regroup with Happy at the vault.”
Marisa nodded. She turned and ran west, calling up the wireframe map display to show her where the vault was. The map was completely different than any she’d ever played in—all the other Overworld arenas were copies of each other, completely identical except for the theme draped over the top, but this one was new. Completely original, probably built just for this tournament. It was a fun idea, but they’d spent hundreds of hours practicing on the old layout. Playing in here was like playing football on a baseball diamond—it kind of worked, but nothing was where you expected. She rounded the corner and saw the vault turrets, looking like giant police drones bristling with weapons. Anja was behind them, beckoning her forward.
“I just respawned,” said Anja. “I see your plan worked.”
“For certain definitions of ‘worked,’” said Marisa. Flipping between realities was a lot more painful than she’d expected, but at least it was possible. “What next?”
“Hell if I know,” said Anja, choosing her words carefully. “We’re losing hardcore. This stupid map has a roof, sort of, but it has terrible sniper lines.”
“I know,” said Marisa, pretending to know what she was talking about. “It’s the worst. You lead the way.”
Anja nodded, and led her through the crowd. The people were all fake, of course, just NPCs controlled by the server. They ignored the girls completely, going about their own meaningless business. It made Marisa wordlessly uncomfortable to see them, and she tried to focus on the map instead.
Half a block later they arrived at an alley—the same alley, Marisa noted, that they’d hidden in after jumping off the building. Funny. Now there were attack nulis in it, standing in for the typical creeps that swarmed the other maps. Anja attacked one, and Marisa went into action buffing and healing her, when suddenly another lag spike hit—
And she found herself back in the database.
The sudden shift was less painful going in this direction, but no less jarring; instead of being assaulted by light and noise, she felt suddenly deaf, almost blind, and eerily disembodied. The rules of this network world weren’t defined for VR, and trying to interact with it that way felt wrong in a way she couldn’t put words to. It was like being a ghost, but in reverse—she was real, and the world itself was dead and ethereal. She shook the folds of her massive dress, so eager for anything familiar that even a sound would be enough.
The dress, just as virtual as the rest of it, was silent.
She closed her eyes, imagining she was somewhere real instead of this ghostly non-place. “I’m real,” she said out loud.
“Me too,” said Bao. “Cool coincidence.”
Marisa felt a sudden rush of embarrassment. “Sorry, I’m just kind of freaking out.”
“You were quiet for a long time,” said Bao. “Everything okay?”
“Perfect,” said Marisa. “The Goblins are finding the data. The bot script is working as planned, though it’s more disorienting than I’d expected.” She opened her eyes. “I don’t know how long I have before the next lag spike throws me back into Overworld, so let’s get this party started.” She swam through the network until she found the email system again, then pulled up the address for Mr. Park and wrote him a fake email, using the secure database to make it look like the email came from Chaewon’s father, the Sigan CEO:
This building is no longer a safe place to hold the prisoner. Move him to our off-site location immediately.
Marisa didn’t know what the off-site location might be, but it seemed like a good bet that they had one. It didn’t matter anyway; they just had to move him, and if the plan went the way it was supposed to, they’d never get wherever it was they were going. She hesitated a moment—they’d only get one shot at this, and if it didn’t all go to plan, she didn’t know when she’d see Alain again. But they had no other option. She blinked, and sent the message.
“Email away,” she said. “Time to rescue Alain.”
THIRTY
The file Marisa had left open was the location of Alain’s cell. Marisa found the link to the security camera network, and watched him.
Alain Bensoussan sat on the edge of a small cot, which was bolted to the floor. It disturbed Marisa to think that a megacorp would even have a holding cell, let alone a prisoner currently locked up in one, but that was the whole problem, wasn’t it? Megacorps were above the law. Alain looked like he’d been beaten pretty severely, but the fact that he was alive said that he hadn’t given up any info yet.
The lock on the door clicked open, and Alain’s eyes flicked over to watch as someone entered. That was the other benefit these cameras had over the hoodie: sound.
“GetUpYou’reBeingTransferred,” said Park.
Alain narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “To where?”
“YouWillNotBeConsciousForTheJourney,” said Park. “StandUpAndMakeThisEasyOnYourself.”
Alain stood, wincing just enough to make Marisa wonder if he had a broken rib. That would make it hard for him to run. He was wearing a set of three-armed manacles, one for each wrist and the third connecting him to the floor; Mr. Park unlocked this third ring and marched him toward the door. Marisa flipped to another camera and watched them walk through the hall toward the elevators. They waited, and when it came Alain hesitated a moment before stepping in. Was he expecting an ambush? Planning an escape?
“Just hang on a minute,” she whispered. “We’ve got you.”
“What?” asked Bao.
“Nothing,” said Marisa. “He’s on his way to you. Elevator number two.”
Mr. Park stepped in after him, said “ThirdFloor,” and the doors closed.
“Third floor?” asked Alain. “That’s not much of a transfer.”
“We’reGoingOff-Site,” said Park. “That’sTheTransferPointToTheParkingGarageElevators.”
“I’m in position,” said Bao.
Marisa flipped over to a camera in his hallway, and saw him waiting outside the elevator, wearing a nuli maintenance uniform and pushing a small cart. He held the burner phone in his hand, his thumb hovering over a small black button on the screen.
“Three,” Marisa counted, “two, one.”
The elevator opened, Mr. Park stepped out, and dropped like a sack of rocks when Bao pushed the button on his phone. His fall yanked on the chain connected to Alain, but he’d already braced himself—almost as if he’d been expecting it.
“Bao?” asked Alain.
Bao looked up, surprised. “How did you know it was me?”
“Because it’s exactly how I’d break someone out,” said Alain. “This is the weak point in their security—you couldn’t get me any higher up, because then there’s no way out of the building, and you couldn’t get me any farther down because there’s probably a whole security team waiting in the parking garage.”
“Wow,” said Marisa.
“I . . . okay,” said Bao. “You just saved me the introduction, so we’ll jump to the next part—and please answer quickly, because even the twenty TEDs in this bag aren’t going to keep Park down for long.” The overclocked security officer was already starting to stir. Bao stepped closer. “Before I give you anything else—before you take one more step toward the front door—I need you to answer a question.”
Marisa frowned. This wasn’t part of the plan.
Mr. Park twitched, slowly coming back online.
“Ask it,” said Alain.
Bao looked at him solemnly. “Are you for real?”
“What do you mean?” asked Bao.
“My best friend in the world is putting her neck on the line for you,” said Bao, “and I’m not saving you until I know: Are you for real? Are you really, honestly, the noble warrior you claim to be, or are you gonna ruin her life?”
Alain studied him for a moment before answering. “I won’t claim to be noble,” he said at last, “but I promise that I’m sincere. I would never betray anyone who helped me, but Marisa least of all. She’s . . . . I’d do anything for her.”
Marisa felt her heart flip over in her chest.
Bao rolled his eyes. “Even if it means prison?”
Alain lifted his shirt to show the bloody bandages underneath. “A government prison will be a welcome relief from Sigan.”
Bao scowled at the bandages. “Damn. Can you run? The next part of the plan involves a lot of running.”
Mr. Park moved his arms, trying to lift himself off the floor.
“I’ll do my best,” said Alain, and raised his manacled wrists. “Do you have a key for these cuffs?”
“No, you’re gonna need those,” said Bao. “So: here’s the plan. In just a minute you’re going to run down that hall, turn left, and head for the stairs. Stay close to the cubicles as you run.”
Alain frowned. “What’s our exit point?”
“The front door,” said Bao, and handed him the burner phone. “This phone is shielded from electromagnetic attacks—cost Anja a fortune. Say hi.”
Alain put the phone to his ear. “Hello?”
“Hey,” said Marisa. “Good to hear your voice.”
“Yours as well,” said Alain. “Is this whole thing your plan?”
“Only if it works,” said Marisa. “If you end up caught or dead or something, it was totally someone else’s.”
“And I’m supposed to just . . . go through the front door?” asked Alain.
“Trust me,” said Marisa. “And keep the phone on you. Your djinni’s broken, so the phone’s programmed to emit an RF signal and trigger a bunch of proximity sensors. That will help keep Mr. Park away from you.”
“Shouldn’t I just start running now?”
“Bao told you to wait,” said Marisa. “I’m watching the security cameras, and there’s a team coming straight for you.”
Alain looked up urgently. “Isn’t that a reason to not wait?”
“We need them to see us,” said Bao. He dropped his bag and held up his fake plastic gun. It was exactly the kind Sigan’s security staff used, and when he tapped a button on his technician’s uniform, the color and insignias shifted until his jacket and hat also looked like that of the security staff. He leveled the weapon at Alain, and in that moment a team of three security guards came around the corner behind him. “He’s getting away!” shouted Bao. “Catch him!”
Park lurched to his feet, and the guards shouted in alarm. Alain turned and ran.
Pablo Nakamoto worke
d on the third floor of the KT Sigan building, answering customer calls for tech support questions, though right now he was on his lunch break. Marisa watched on the security cameras as he and his cubicle partner, a woman named Kendra Billman, streamed the Forward Motion final on Pablo’s computer screen. If Marisa squinted just right, she could almost see the stats in the corner.
“I know we’re supposed to cheer for World2gether,” said Kendra, “but I love this other team. Have you been watching?”
“They’re amazing,” said Pablo. He picked up the plastic container with his lunch—a roast pepper salad from Solipsis Cafe—and opened it. “I love how they always do something you don’t expect.”
“Except today,” said Kendra. “They’re playing pretty standard tactics.”
“I know,” said Pablo. He picked up the little cup of salad dressing and popped off the lid. “I guess we’re not going to get any surprises.” He poured the dressing over his salad, and stared wide-eyed at the slim, round disk that plopped out onto the peppers.
Marisa smiled.
Kendra frowned at it. “What’s that?”
“I . . . have no idea,” said Pablo. He poked it with his plastic fork. “It’s not food.”
“It looks like ceramic,” said Kendra. “Or . . . resin. Like a little poker chip or something.”
“Why would there be a poker chip in my salad dressing?”
“I have no idea.”
The woman in the next cubicle over stuck her head around the divider. “Hey, did you get something weird in your salad dressing?” She held up a disk exactly like Pablo’s.
“Yeah,” said Pablo. “Do you know what it is?”
“No idea.”
“I got one, too,” shouted another voice, followed by a chorus of “Me toos” from a dozen or so other people in the call center. Pablo looked at Kendra, who simply shrugged.
Pablo looked at his salad. “What should we do about—”