Remind me what model nulis you use, sent Anja.
Arora Shutterbug 47s, sent Sahara. Why?
Good, sent Anja. That’s the kind where you can fold in the rotor arms.
Marisa’s eyes widened. Don’t do it.
It doesn’t hurt them, sent Sahara, they’re designed to fold.
It’s not that, sent Marisa, it’s her plan. She wants to make one of the nulis as small as possible and then plant it nearby, like a surveillance bug or something.
I just walked through the area, sent Anja, and there’s a great place behind a trash can but it won’t fit there with the rotors extended. That means it can’t fly itself into place, so I’ll have to do it manually.
And then recover it manually, sent Marisa. That’s two chances for them to see you doing something very suspicious, and I guarantee they won’t be happy when they do.
We can distract them, sent Sahara. Get them all to look the other way and then shove the nuli into place behind them.
Too risky, sent Marisa.
Move right here, sent Anja, and another map icon appeared by her message. It’s the perfect spot, and with that sleeve of yours cut off I guarantee you’ll get their attention.
“Like hell,” snapped Marisa, muttering the words out loud. She took a breath, and then sent a more measured response. I’m not getting anywhere near them. She remembered the Foundation doctor, sneering and calling her a golem, and she shuddered.
I’ll do it, sent Sahara. Cameron’s on his way to you, Anja, so get out of sight before the whole group of them watches you catch and fold up a nuli.
Marisa stared across the room in the direction of the glowing blue arrow, barely daring to breathe. She couldn’t see Garrett and his cronies, or even Anja or Sahara, but she couldn’t look away. She gripped her pepper spray tighter, and then blinked into Camilla’s video feed.
Sahara was sashaying across the floor, smiling like a movie star and swaying her hips like a runway model. She looked stunning, and Marisa gasped out loud when she saw what her friend was doing: she walked straight toward the circle of chop shop gangsters, leaned over the back of one of their chairs, and purred a greeting.
“Hello, boys.”
“No hookers,” said Garrett, dismissing her with a wave. “We’re busy tonight.”
Marisa clenched her teeth in silent fury.
Stall, sent Anja.
“I’m no hooker,” said Sahara, keeping her voice sultry. “My friends and I saw you over here and thought you might like to buy us a drink.”
“What are you, fifteen?” asked one of the men. “Is this a sting?”
Sahara smiled. “Do you want it to be?”
“Beat it,” said a third man, and looked at one of the others. “Braydon, can you convince this girl we’re not interested?”
One of the men stood up and Sahara backed away, holding out her hands in a placating gesture.
“Fine,” said Sahara. “You’re not interested, you’re not interested. I can do better anyway.”
Got it, sent Anja. Get out of there.
Sahara turned to leave, and Camilla swung around to film her from the front—giving the vidcast viewers a perfect look at Sahara’s smirk, and giving Marisa a chance to look over Sahara’s shoulder at the menacing thug beyond.
He’s not following you, sent Marisa. She sat down at an empty table, and blinked to send the other girls her position. Join me over here. We can listen from a safe distance.
I feel dirty, sent Sahara.
You should, sent Anja. Did you offer to fake a police sting for them? That is a fetish I was not aware of.
I didn’t know what else to say! sent Sahara. I don’t usually get shut down that hard.
Anja appeared out of the crowd and sat down next to Marisa. “It’s got to be a thing,” she said out loud. “Make it with an underage girl while some authority figure watches? That’s too sick to not be real.”
“Shut up,” said Sahara, sitting down across from her. “It worked. Camilla’s audio feed is turned off, and Cameron’s is already coming in.”
Anja and Marisa both blinked on the audio, and all three girls listened intently as the chop shop circle got back to their discussion.
“—later,” said a deep voice. “Think she’ll still be around?”
“Stop thinking with your dick,” said another. “She had a camera nuli following her; one of those vidcasters. We don’t need that kind of visibility.”
“Damn it,” muttered Sahara. “That’s two steps away from them finding me if they ever decide to look.”
“She’s no good for organs, either,” said another of the men. “People are going to notice if a vidcaster goes missing.”
“I take it back,” said Sahara. “Three cheers for camera nulis.”
“No kidding,” said Marisa. “I’m buying one tonight.”
“All of you shut up,” said another voice. Without a video feed to go along with the audio, Marisa couldn’t keep track of which speaker was which, or if the same person had spoken more than once. “We got another order, and we can fill most of it with the stuff we’ve got in storage, but this is a hospital and they need organs. We’re one heart shy.”
“Specs?”
“Vanilla is fine. Anything too nice and a hospital will start asking questions.”
“That’s why we need to stop selling in bulk and stick to the specialty market—cybernetics, genhancements; rich clients with expensive tastes. It’s less work, it’s less inventory, and that means less risk for us.”
Marisa felt her throat constrict. “I’m going to be sick.” Sahara grabbed her hand and squeezed.
“We’d be stupid to cut our audience in half,” said one of the men. “We can sell bulk and specialty, and we need everything we can get with that bastard trying to undercut us. Now: Which of your boys is going to get the heart?”
“I’m calling the police,” said Sahara.
“We still don’t know about Zenaida,” said Anja. “Isn’t that why we’re here?”
“They’re plotting a murder,” said Marisa.
“So we stop them,” said Anja, “but if we don’t let them talk first, we don’t get any of the info we need.”
Marisa’s response was cut off almost instantly by an excited squeal.
“It’s her! See, I told you she was here—I recognized the club on her feed! That’s her, that’s Sahara!”
“Wut,” said Anja.
The three friends looked over to see a group of girls standing about ten feet away, clutching their hands to their chins; when they saw Marisa looking at them they giggled and blushed.
“Please no,” muttered Sahara.
“Hi,” said the lead girl. She had limbs like sticks, and was dressed in a shapeless blue bag that barely covered her from armpit to inseam. Marisa got the impression that it could inflate, leaving the girl in the middle of a dark blue sphere. She held the bonsai lion in one arm, and her grin stretched from ear to ear. “Are you Sahara Cowan?”
Sahara put on a stately face and smiled back kindly. “Yes I am.”
“Oooh!” said the girl. “And that’s Marisa and Anja. Holy gods, I love you so much. I watch your show all the time.”
“So do we!” squealed another girl beside her. The skinny lion girl glared at her.
“Shut up, Feather, you’re making us look like idiots.” The girl smiled at Sahara again. “Sorry about Feather, she’s kind of a horkus.”
The girl named Feather tried to frown and smile at the same time. “Sorry, I’m just . . . you’re right here. You’re real!”
Anja leaned back in her chair and nodded her chin at the embarrassed girl. “What’s the matter? Never seen a great woman before?”
“And I’m sorry about my friend,” said Sahara. “It’s nice to meet you, though; thanks for watching.” She turned back toward the center of the table, away from the giggling girls, but the lion girl stepped forward and kept talking.
“What I really love is how real the show
is, you know? Like, how you really get to see poverty, up close and personal, and the lives of the people who face it every day.”
“And here we go,” said Anja.
“We’re trying to have a low-key night,” said Sahara, and turned her back again.
“Oh, I totally get it,” said the lion girl. “My name’s Pendant, by the way. Like the necklace?” She put the bonsai lion on the table and sat in the empty fourth chair. The lion yawned. “Like you: Marisa, right? Your family’s restaurant is barely scraping by, but you all stick together anyway. We see you on the vidcast all the time, and you’re, like . . . real. You know? But you’re out here trying to get away from all of that, and I totally get it.”
Anja sent a text message: Don’t kill them.
The girl named Feather inched forward. “Can I . . . have your autograph?”
Marisa looked at Sahara. “Does this happen to you a lot?”
“Not really.”
“And I love how humble you are,” said Pendant. “I just want to lick your face.”
“I think we’re done here,” said Sahara.
More people are starting to look at us, sent Anja. We’re attracting attention.
Marisa sent a warning back: If Discount Arms sees us attracting attention, they will definitely look up Sahara. We want them to forget about us, not follow us online.
“Here,” said Feather, and shoved a notebook in Sahara’s face. “Just write, ‘To Feather.’”
“We have to go now,” said Sahara, and stood up. Marisa stood as well, looking around warily at the faces watching her from the crowd, hoping none of the chop shop men were there—
—and then she froze, staring at a woman’s face.
The woman stared back at her, eyes wide with fear.
“No,” said Marisa.
“You okay?” asked Anja.
“Don’t you see her?” asked Marisa.
“Who?”
Marisa pointed. “Zenaida de Maldonado.”
In the middle of the crowd, a terrified Zenaida turned away and started running—straight through the people, straight through the chairs and the benches and the bars. Marisa shouted and ran after her, pushing her way through the crowd, until Zenaida reached the wall.
And ran straight through it.
NINE
“We have to go,” said Sahara.
Marisa felt frozen to the floor. “I can’t believe it. I saw a . . . a ghost.”
“And the whole club saw you,” said Sahara, hissing through clenched teeth. “We have to go now, unless you want the chop shop’s full attention?”
Marisa stared at the spot in the wall where Zenaida had disappeared, reeling from a turbulent mix of shock and fear. She couldn’t move on her own, but let herself be hurried out of the club by Sahara on one side and Anja on the other.
“I’ve called an autocab,” said Anja.
“We never should have tried to do this ourselves,” said Sahara. “They know who I am now—they could follow us anywhere.”
“Only if they care,” said Anja. “If we’re lucky, everyone back there is laughing about the girl who got high and freaked out.”
“I saw her,” said Marisa. “Zenaida. She was right there. Just like Omar said.”
“You imagined it,” said Sahara. A cab pulled up next to them and opened its door with a gentle hum.
Marisa shook her head. “It was real.”
“Maybe you really were high,” said Anja, maneuvering her into the cab. “What was in that drink you ordered?”
“It was Lift,” said Marisa. Sahara got in after them, and the cab closed its door and merged smoothly into the traffic. “Just caffeine—I’m not high or drunk or anything else. I saw her.”
“I can’t believe I seriously have to say this,” said Sahara. “Marisa. Ghosts. Aren’t. Real.”
“I know,” said Marisa, trying to convince herself. “I know. But then . . . what else could it be? Because I saw her.”
“Maybe it was a hologram,” said Sahara.
“Projected by what?” asked Marisa. “Or by who? And why couldn’t anyone else see it?”
“Or it might have been . . .” Sahara hesitated. “I don’t know. A hallucination.”
Marisa glared at her. “You think I’m crazy?”
“I think you just chased a figment of your imagination across a crowded bar,” said Sahara, “so yeah, maybe a little.”
“We left Cameron behind,” said Anja.
“I can get him later,” said Sahara. “Not really a concern right now, all things considered.”
“No,” said Anja, “I mean it’s still there, transmitting, and I’ve been listening. The chop shop didn’t say anything about us.”
“Hallelujah,” said Sahara. “Did they say anything else?”
“Not really,” said Anja, “but I think I know which ID belongs to the guy they sent out to steal a heart. Someone named Brayden Clay left early.”
“You mean Braydon Garrett,” said Marisa.
“There’s two Braydons,” said Anja, and then paused, reading the list of IDs on her djinni. “Strike that, there’s actually four Braydons. Four of the six chop shop guys are named Braydon.” Her face broke into a wide smile. “Oh man, and they’re all spelled differently. Braydon, Brayden, Braiden, and Braden. If this whole chop shop thing doesn’t work out, they could probably start a boy band.”
“They were all in their forties,” said Sahara. “Born in . . . 2008? 2009? Everyone back then was named Braydon.”
“Can we try to focus?” asked Marisa. “The cult of evil Braydons is going to kill someone, and I saw a pinche ghost.”
“You told me that was a bad word,” said Anja, and grinned. “High five.”
“Send Hitman Brayden’s ID to La Sesenta,” said Sahara. “Memo is expecting results, so it’s about time we give him some.”
“Fine,” said Marisa, “but send the same ID to the cops. Memo will be grateful, but the police can probably track the guy fast enough to stop him before he kills someone.”
“Done and done,” said Anja. “What next?”
Sahara tapped her fingernail against her teeth, thinking. “One of the things we overheard tonight is that they keep an inventory somewhere—which is horrific, but—if the Braydons killed Zenaida there will be evidence, and that’s the most likely place. We need to find it.”
“That’s another thing the police can do for us,” said Marisa. “Send them all the other Braydon IDs and let them hunt the chop shop down. We won’t get the info ourselves, but we’ll find out if they find Zenaida’s body, which is the whole point.”
“If the cops find anything on Zenaida, there’s no way we’ll find out anything about it,” said Anja.
“They’ll tell Omar what they find,” said Marisa. “And he’ll tell us.”
“I’m confused about your sudden pro-Omar policy shift,” said Sahara.
Marisa slumped down in her seat. “Ay, Dios, so am I. He’s still a bastard, but he’s . . . in pain? Does that count for anything?”
“You’re a healer in Overworld,” said Anja. “You don’t have to be a healer everywhere else, too.”
“Whatever, whatever,” said Marisa, closing her eyes. “I’m not thinking about it. We’re trying to find Zenaida. What’s our next step?”
Sahara sighed. “Back to the basics, I guess. I’m going to research old news items from back at the time of the crash. Maybe there was something else going on, with ZooMorrow or with any of these chop shop dudes, that we missed before because we didn’t know about them yet.”
Marisa nodded, and closed her eyes. She’d seen a ghost or a hallucination or a hologram or who knows what it was, and it had freaked her out. And she barely knew the woman—how shocking must it have been for Omar to see his own mother, terrified and running away from him?
And now I’m thinking about Omar again, she thought. Stop it! But that look on Zenaida’s face: absolute fear, and . . . something harsher. Anger, maybe, or disgust. Did she give
the same look to Omar?
Why did she give it to Marisa?
Marisa took a breath, stretching her legs and toes, and then cracked her neck and sat up straight. Time to get back to business. She blinked onto the internet, connected to Lemnisca.te, and opened a search.
And saw a message icon, blinking in the corner of her vision.
She frowned at it. She had a few contacts and acquaintances on Lemnisca.te, but it was a darknet site—a deep, inky ocean full of incredibly secretive people, and none of them were easy to get close to. She’d rarely ever had a personal message from any of them before. She looked at the username of the sender:
BeowulfsBuddy.
“Grendel,” she said out loud.
“What?” asked Sahara.
“I just got a message from Grendel,” said Marisa. “He just . . . contacted me, out of the blue.” She looked at the private mail in trepidation, barely daring to touch it. “I guess all those messages I left for him finally worked.”
“What does it say?” asked Anja.
“I haven’t opened it.”
“Scan it first,” said Sahara. “Who’s knows what kind of bonkers malware that guy’s attaching to his messages.”
Marisa nodded, and blinked. Lemnisca.te’s users were endlessly paranoid, but that was one of the things she liked best about them. Their malware scanners were amazing. The scan came up clean, and then she hit it with her own scanner, just in case. Same result. She looked at Sahara and Anja, took a breath, and opened the message.
Gonzalo Sanchez.
Ricardo Guzmán.
Ingrid Castañeda.
“That’s it?” asked Sahara.
“That’s it,” said Marisa. “Three names.”
“This guy is so weird,” said Anja.
“Let’s look them up.” Marisa pointed at each girl in turn. “One, two, three. See what we can find.” She’d assigned herself Three, so she opened a general search window and plugged in “Ingrid Castañeda.” It spat back a massive list of results, so she tried to narrow the search a bit; she combined the name with “Maldonado” and still got tens of thousands of results. Maybe if she combined it with “ZooMorrow”? Nothing. “Marisa”? Too many results. She frowned, and decided to try a few more just to see what worked. “Carlo Magno Carneseca”? Nothing special. “Omar Maldonado”? Nothing special. The date of the car crash?