“That’s cruel,” said Omar.
“Don’t blame me,” said Renata, typing on her screen again. “It’s your mom’s idea.”
“Where did the nulis disappear?” asked Anja, looking at the screen.
Renata called up the data, and four points appeared on the map. “Kind of all over, honestly. Mostly coastal, like I said, but they go all the way from Santa Monica to Tijuana. And this third one was pretty far inland.”
“That’s Athens,” said Sahara, peering at the map. “That’s where Foxtrot is—the club where we spied on the chop shop.”
“You spied on a chop shop?” asked Renata. “I really missed you girls.”
“It’s been in the news,” said Marisa. “You’ve been looking for Zenaida for how long, and you didn’t notice when her hand showed up at the police station?”
“Either time?” asked Anja.
“Of course I noticed,” said Renata, “but it was obviously just a bioprinter—”
“Because you sold the DNA,” said Sahara.
Renata shrugged. “I went to all the trouble to steal it—I may as well make a few extra bucks on the side, right?”
“You have no idea how much trouble you’ve caused,” said Marisa. “This isn’t just a couple of bucks, this is people’s lives.”
“But now you know your mom is alive,” said Renata, and looked at Omar. “In a way, I’ve performed a valuable service.”
“You can’t just—” Marisa started, but Renata cut her off, spinning around to face them.
“Have you analyzed the videos yet?”
“We’ve watched them,” said Marisa, “and we’ve looked at the clothing and stuff, but there’s not a lot in the way of clues. She’s edited out the background too.”
“I’m not talking about the image,” said Renata, “I’m talking about the files themselves. There’s a ton of metadata stored in a video file—even if she cut out some of the assets, there might still be good info buried inside it. Time stamps. Video artifacts. GPS data if we’re really lucky.”
“That’s smart,” said Marisa, nodding. “We can do that.”
“The third video wasn’t taken on the street,” said Omar, “it was staged, and she’s talking directly to the camera. That might have been filmed wherever she’s living.”
“Exactly,” said Renata. “Dig through that video data and we find the woman.”
“Go back a bit,” said Sahara. “You said you knew that the severed left hand came from a bioprinter. ‘A’ bioprinter, not ‘the.’”
Renata shrugged. “Your point?”
“You sold it to more than one, didn’t you?”
“Argh. Which one borked it?” asked Renata. “Andy Song? Tell me it was Andy Song.”
“How many people did you sell the DNA to?” asked Marisa. She could tell what Sahara was thinking, and she didn’t like it at all. “Someone is killing to keep that DNA secret—how many people have it?”
“Espérate,” said Renata, suddenly serious. “Someone’s killing for it?”
“You said you heard about the police report,” said Omar.
“It was a gangland turf war,” said Renata. “Now they’re actually fighting over the DNA itself?”
“Not the gangs,” said Sahara. “ZooMorrow. You didn’t analyze the DNA you stole from them, did you? You just put it into the drone and started looking for buyers.”
“Pretty much,” said Renata.
“It had unreleased ZooMorrow gene-tech,” said Sahara. “They sent a corporate assassin to recover it.”
“Dos diablos dañandose,” said Renata, cursing. She looked at her row of computers and screens, and swung the rifle toward their hard drives.
“Whoa!” said Sahara, and she and Marisa and Omar scrambled back away from the computers, expecting her to perform another violent reprogramming. Anja was still reclining on the futon, unconcerned.
“Disconnecting them should be enough,” said Anja. “Though I admit it’s not as fun.”
“Whatever you do,” said Sahara, “we need the access data first. Can you still get into ZooMorrow?”
“Why would I want to get back in?” asked Renata. “They already want to kill me from the first time.”
“Because we need to protect Zenaida,” said Sahara, and looked at Marisa. “Nothing we do to save her is going to matter if they just send another assassin to hunt her down again. We have to delete Zenaida’s DNA template and everything else about her from ZooMorrow’s database.”
“Yeah,” said Renata, watching them carefully. “I can get you in. For a price.”
“Omar?” said Anja.
Omar grumbled. “Yeah, fine. Whatever my father offered you in the first place, I’ll give you that much again for the access data.”
“Sold!” said Renata. She sat down in front of one of the computers, looked at a few things, and then shrugged and disconnected it from the others. She handed it to Sahara. “This is everything. Don’t let them catch you with it, or they’ll think you’re the one who hacked ’em.” She grinned. “And if you found me, ZooMorrow’s not far behind. Let me kill the rest of this stuff and we can go . . . wherever we’re going next?”
“Somewhere we can analyze the video files,” said Omar.
“Eventually, yeah,” said Sahara, “but we have to warn some people, too. Anyone who bought that DNA template could be in danger.”
“Do you have a list?” asked Marisa.
“A merc who keeps bad books doesn’t get paid,” said Renata, and picked up a tablet. “I’ve got all the names, but here’s a little Mercenary 101: we don’t just warn them about the assassin; we offer to sell them protection from it. Right? It’s like getting paid twice!”
“I can’t believe you,” said Marisa. “You stole data without any thought to how dangerous it was, or how much the people you stole it from would want to protect it. Then you sold it to a bunch of innocent people, practically painting a target on their heads—”
“They were buying black-market DNA from a nameless internet hacker,” said Renata. “They’re not exactly innocent.”
“They don’t deserve to die!” said Marisa. “And you don’t even care about protecting them!”
“I can’t care about everyone just because they’re about to die,” said Renata.
“But these ones are your fault,” Marisa insisted.
“Just give me the tablet,” said Sahara. “Do whatever you need to do to these computers and let’s get out of here; we can continue this discussion when we’re not sitting on ground zero of an imminent ZooMorrow burn operation.”
“Fine,” said Renata. She handed Sahara the tablet and slung the rifle over her shoulder before crouching down in front of the largest of the computers.
“Who’s on it?” asked Marisa, looking over Sahara’s shoulder. “Anyone we know?”
“Let me see,” said Sahara, opening the list as she talked. “Just three: Andy Song, a djinni clinic—they probably just use it for blood transfusions—and a hospital—oh.” She looked at Marisa, eyes wide with shock. “Oh.”
“What?” asked Marisa.
Sahara recovered from her shock quickly, her jaw hardening into crisis mode. “Polo Urias Hospital. Didn’t they do your dad?”
Marisa couldn’t speak; Polo Urias had replaced her father’s liver. She walked to Sahara’s side and grabbed the tablet, looking at it. That was the same place. She had the phone number saved in her djinni, in case there were any complications from the surgery; she blinked on it now, and a receptionist answered on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“I need to speak with Dr. Barnes,” said Marisa.
“Dr. Barnes isn’t in right no—”
“Your office bought black-market DNA from a hacker,” said Marisa. “Don’t argue with me, I’m standing with the hacker who sold it to you.”
“Polo Urias Hospital maintains the highest standards of—”
“Don’t argue,” Marisa repeated. “I’m not trying to get y
ou arrested, I’m trying to save people’s lives. That DNA is dangerous, and everyone who has it could be at risk. Now tell me: Did you use that DNA to bioprint the liver you implanted in my father? His name is Carlo Magno Carneseca, look it up.”
The line was quiet for a while, though the receptionist didn’t hang up. After a moment she came back. “That DNA’s been used to grow five organs, and the only one we’ve implanted was in Mr. Carneseca—”
Marisa ended the call. “I have to get home,” she said, and ran for the door. “The Mantissassin’s going to come after my dad.”
NINETEEN
Marisa called Detective Hendel as she sprinted to the elevator.
“This is Hendel.”
“This is Marisa,” she said, mashing the elevator button repeatedly with her thumb. “We talked to the hacker. She didn’t just sell Zenaida’s DNA to Andy Song—she sold it to the hospital where my father had his liver replaced. The assassin’s going to come for him.” The elevator doors opened, and she got on, mashing the first-floor button as hard as she could. Sahara slipped in after her, but didn’t interrupt her phone call.
“Calm down,” said Hendel. “We need to get a sense of how many people took transplants with the black-market DNA—”
“My father has proprietary ZooMorrow technology in his body!” Marisa shouted. “They’ve killed for less than that in the past twelve hours alone. Isn’t there anything you can do to protect him?”
“Of course,” said Hendel, “but try to stay calm. You just found out about this, but that doesn’t mean ZooMorrow knows it.”
“ZooMorrow has alerts set up in whatever central database you use for DNA testing,” said Marisa. She was too nervous to stand still, and paced the floor of the tiny elevator as it slowly rumbled down. “They knew when you tested the hand, and they’ll know when any of the hospitals that bought the DNA test the patients who have it. My father practically collapsed in the police station this morning, and the medical nuli’s standard protocol in a case like that is to run a blood test and look for infections. If any of that blood tests positive for Zenaida’s DNA, it’ll raise every flag ZooMorrow has, and Ramira Bennett won’t be far behind.”
“She’s not a murderer,” said Hendel.
“She’s a retrieval agent,” shouted Marisa. “She’s going to forcibly repossess his liver. What do you call that if not murder?”
Sahara put a hand on Marisa’s arm, trying to calm her. The touch made Marisa feel suddenly vulnerable, and she pulled away. “On top of everything else, my father knows Zenaida. He knows the truth about what really happened, and maybe even where she’s hiding now. Bennett will interrogate him, and she will kill him.” She closed the call, wishing she had one of the old-style phones, like her abuela used to use, that had a big plastic handset you could slam down on the holder. Hands-free technology was awesome and all, but sometimes you really just wanted to slam something.
“I’ve already called a cab,” said Sahara. “Anja and Omar are staying with Renata.”
“Good,” said Marisa, staring at the door. “And thank you for coming with me.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
The door opened, and Marisa sprinted outside to the cab. She sat nervously in the seat, bouncing her legs, and then finally bit her lip and called her father.
“Marisa,” said Carlo Magno. She couldn’t tell from his voice if he was angry, or tired, or the worst parental emotion of all: disappointed.
“Don’t be mad,” said Marisa.
“It is way too late for that.”
“Someone is coming to kill you,” she blurted out.
“What?”
“I’m on my way now, but you have to hide, you have to send the other kids somewhere—”
“What have you gotten into this time?” he demanded. “Is it Chuy?”
“It’s not me or Chuy,” she said, “it’s you! It’s the hospital! The new liver they gave you is made from Zenaida de Maldonado’s DNA, and someone is—”
“Lupe!” shouted Carlo Magno. “Clear the restaurant! Send Pati to a friend’s house!”
“Wait,” said Marisa. “What do you know about Zenaida’s DNA?”
“I know that this nearly killed us last time,” he said. “Stay away. Let me deal with this—”
“Are you kidding me?” she shouted. “You know about the assassins and the DNA and everything? Is this really how it happened fifteen years ago—was she really trying to escape from ZooMorrow? She stole their genhancements?”
“I don’t have time to talk right now,” said Carlo Magno. “Go home, get your sisters, and get out of here. Take them to Anja’s house if you can—”
“Sandro can take them!” she said. “Let me help you!”
“You can help us by staying away!” he barked. “I haven’t spent fifteen years keeping you out of the line of fire just so you can jump back in the middle of it now.”
“You said you’re in San Juanito,” said Marisa. “I’m almost there.”
“Don’t you dare,” he growled.
Marisa shook her head. “It’s like you said before, Papi: it’s way too late for that.”
The cab pulled to a stop, and she jumped out as soon as the doors unlocked. The restaurant was shut down; the computer that usually recognized her immediately didn’t so much as say hello. She tried the door but found it locked. She blinked, accessed the San Juanito central computer—it wasn’t advertising, but it was on—and overrode the controls, causing the door to open with a click. Her parents would kill her when they found out she knew how to do that, but she had bigger concerns right now. Sahara followed her in, and Marisa locked the door behind them with a blink.
“Papi?” she called. “Mami?”
Carlo Magno answered with a low rumble from the back corner. “Marisa . . .”
“Get over here,” said Guadalupe, and stepped into view. “No one’s come yet. Maybe no one will.”
Sahara stayed by the window, watching the street outside, and Marisa walked back to the corner to see her father sitting at table eight, his breathing labored. Triste Chango the medical nuli sat close to him, reading his vitals and murmuring softly. A black handgun sat on the table in front of him.
“You own a gun?” asked Marisa.
“Of course I own a gun,” said Carlo Magno. “I live in Mirador.”
“We could call the Maldonados,” said Marisa. “We pay them protection money, this is what it’s for—”
“And what would we tell them?” asked Guadalupe, sitting down next to her husband. “That all the old debts are finally coming due? They’re as much a part of this as we are.”
“Don Francisco controls everything,” said Carlo Magno, and sighed. “But he can’t control this.”
Marisa sat down across from them. “It’s time for you to tell me what’s going on. If it helps me protect you—”
“You’re my daughter,” he snapped. “You’re seventeen years old. I’m supposed to be protecting you—”
“Stay calm,” said Guadalupe. “Both of you.”
Carlo Magno sighed. “The past is past,” he said. “We can’t change it, we can only move on.”
“But we can learn from it,” said Marisa.
“I’ve fought for so long so that this wouldn’t have to be a part of your life—”
“Look at me,” she said, and slammed her metal hand down on the table. She did it harder than she meant to, but they only watched her, waiting for her to finish. She nodded; this, at least, was progress. “This is my arm,” she said. “This is my reality. It’s been a part of my life for fifteen years.”
Guadalupe started to speak, but stopped herself.
“We never wanted this for you,” said Carlo Magno. “And you’re right: you’ve had to deal with this in a way we never have. And we’ve tried, you know we’ve tried. That’s a Jeon Generation prosthetic, Mari. We didn’t have the money for it, but we found a way to give you an arm better than the one you lost. We’ve done everything we could—”
“Except tell me the truth about it.”
“The truth is not yours to demand!” he snapped. He looked like he was in pain, but Triste Chango didn’t say anything. Whatever he was suffering, Marisa realized, it was more emotional than physical. She tried to speak, but she didn’t know what to say.
“You’ve always been your own person,” Carlo Magno continued. “Always self-confident, always self-assured. And always self-motivated, though sometimes it drives me crazy trying to keep up with you.”
“I’m only doing what I think is right,” said Marisa.
“We know,” said Guadalupe. “And we’re very proud of you. But when you know things, you meddle with them—”
“Meddle?” asked Marisa. “Someone’s trying to kill Papi! Trying to save his life isn’t meddling!”
Carlo Magno shouted: “You have no idea the trouble you’ve caused!”
“I’m not the one who caused it!” she shouted back. “Don Francisco abused Zenaida before I was even born; you and he made a deal when I could barely walk; Zenaida’s DNA made its way into your body before I knew anything about any of it. The only part you can blame me for is figuring it out in time to warn you. Now we can do something about it! We can save you, and we can save Zenaida—”
“Zenaida cut off your arm!” Carlo Magno roared.
Marisa’s words disappeared from her throat.
Guadalupe closed her eyes.
Carlo Magno stared at Marisa, his face red with fury. “Is that what you want to hear? Is that the truth you’re so desperate to discover? Zenaida de Maldonado cut off your arm, Mari! Not in the car, and not by accident. She hacked it off with a shovel!”
Marisa’s mouth moved, but no sound came out. She realized she was shaking her head, and somehow that motion helped her find her voice again, though at first there was only one word she could say. “No.” She shook her head and repeated it, over and over like a mantra. “No. No. No, no, that’s not true. I was in the car, and it hit another car and it pinned my arm between them. That’s what you’ve always told me. I lost my arm in the car accident—”
“You were in the car,” said Guadalupe. “But you lost your arm a few minutes before that, in Zenaida’s garden.”