Active Memory

  “Hello, Zenaida!” said Jaya, waving enthusiastically. “So good to finally meet you!”

  “Nĭ hăo,” said Fang.

  “What’s this?” asked Zenaida. “Who are you?”

  Jaya grinned. “This whole mess started when someone broke into ZooMorrow’s database and stole your DNA template. Fang and I broke back in and deleted every record of you that they had. There’s no DNA, there’s no employment history, there’s no sign that you ever worked on or took or used their technology. They’ll be lucky if they can spell ‘Zenaida’ after this, let alone find you in their archive.”

  Zenaida looked shocked. “I don’t understand.”

  “As far as ZooMorrow’s concerned,” said Sahara, “you don’t exist. People will still remember you, obviously, including Admiral Greenboobs down there, but they no longer have any legal claim on you or your DNA. And once she wakes up and syncs with the server again, she won’t even have a copy of your DNA left to help look for you.”

  “If they come after you again, it will be murder,” said Marisa, “not trade law. And murder, as I’ve recently learned, is one of the only crimes left where the police force has full jurisdiction.”

  “You’re safe now!” squealed Jaya. “Isn’t that wonderful!”

  “That’s . . . great,” said Zenaida. “Truly, it is. And I thank you. But there’s still Francisco—he’s been hunting me since the day I left, and I can’t go back to that. You know what he’s like, I assume.”

  “Well enough,” said Marisa.

  “Maybe you just need to talk to him,” said Sahara. “Tell him how you really feel, and that you don’t love him anymore.”

  “It’s never been about love,” said Zenaida, “just control. He hasn’t given up in all these years, and he’s not going to now.”

  Omar shifted but didn’t wake. Zenaida looked at him, pursing her lips, and Marisa couldn’t fathom what thoughts might be running through her head.

  “He missed you, you know,” said Marisa. “He’s all tough and macho and tries to act like everything rolls off of him—and most things do—but not you. He’s missed you every day you’ve been gone.”

  “I missed him, too,” said Zenaida softly.

  “He wants you back,” said Marisa.

  Zenaida stared at him a moment longer, then shook her head. “No he doesn’t.”

  “But look at everything he’s done for you—”

  “He didn’t do it for me,” said Zenaida. “He doesn’t love me—he doesn’t know me.” She looked at Marisa, her eyes as deep and sad as dark black pools. “He’s his father’s son, not mine. Not anymore.”

  “You don’t know him either,” said Marisa.

  “Of course I do,” said Zenaida, and she smiled, but it wasn’t any less sorrowful than the loss in her eyes. “Why do you think I live in La Huerta? I’ve been watching him and the other children for years. And I love them, but . . . I know what they’re like.”

  “So come back,” Marisa insisted. “Show them another way to be.”

  “They’re adults now,” said Zenaida, shaking her head. “The time to raise them is long past—and don’t assume that I would have been any better at it than Francisco was. I worked too much, and when I wasn’t at work I was almost never home, because Francisco was there. It was more important to me—I can see this now, looking back—to avoid my husband than to be there for my children. Sergio’s the only one who remembers me, and what does he think of me?”

  “He . . .” Sahara began, but trailed off. They all remembered what he had said in the police station.

  “Exactly,” said Zenaida. “And can you blame him? I abandoned them. What kind of a mother does that?”

  “You tried to take them with you,” said Marisa.

  “But I didn’t,” said Zenaida. “And who can say if they’d be better or worse? Francisco is a monster, but he raised the kind of son who risked his life for a stranger. That’s worth something.”

  “You’re not a stranger,” said Marisa. She clung to the idea stubbornly, refusing to concede the point. “You’re his mother.”

  Zenaida sighed, not in frustration but in sadness. She studied Marisa’s face, and after a moment she spoke again. “You have wonderful parents, Marisa. Not everyone does—most of us are just old children, chasing after dreams and running from our nightmares. We’re weak and we’re flawed and we’re . . . Well. We’re imperfect. And the fact that you don’t see that is the finest testament I can imagine to how good your parents really are.”

  Marisa felt a tear in the corner of her eye, and wiped it away. “It doesn’t always seem that way from my side.”

  “It never does,” said Zenaida. “But Carlo Magno told you about me, right? That cost him more than you realize.”

  “He still won’t tell me everything,” said Marisa. “Even after he told me about the arm, and how you cut it off, there was still one more secret he didn’t want me to know.” She wiped away another tear. “But you know it, don’t you?”

  Zenaida only stared at her, watching her, and after a long, solemn moment she nodded. “I do. But that’s your father’s story to tell, and he’ll tell you in his own time.”

  Marisa looked down at her hands, one flesh and one metal. She didn’t know what else to say.

  “Run,” Omar croaked. The three women looked at him, startled. He tried to open his eyes. “Bennett’s almost here,” he said, his voice dry and hoarse from the sedative. “We have to run.”

  “It’s okay,” said Zenaida, and reached toward him, tentatively, stopping just before touching his face. Her fingers hovered there, uncertain, and then she put her hand gently on his cheek. “Shh,” she whispered. “It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  Omar shifted, slowly waking up, and after a moment he opened his eyes. He saw her hand, and her face, and added it together. He looked at her for a moment, then pulled away.

  Zenaida’s fingers curled slowly as he left them, holding loosely to nothing. Omar watched a moment longer before speaking. “You’re not safe here.”

  “It’s over,” said Marisa. “Bennett’s tied up, and ZooMorrow’s been neutralized.”

  Omar frowned. “Neutralized how?”

  “Hi, Omar!” said Jaya from the phone.

  Fang stuck out her tongue, and sank low in her seat.

  “Her records are erased,” said Marisa. “They can’t look for her anymore, physically or legally.”

  “Maybe ZooMorrow,” said Omar, “but not my father.”

  “No,” said Zenaida.

  “Speak of the devil,” said Sahara, and nodded toward the dockyard below.

  A low, black car was gliding slowly toward the base of the crane. Two more followed it.

  “Hey, guys,” said Renata, jumping back into the voice call. “I hope you don’t mind that I called Don Francisco, right? I mean, he is my original employer, and I’d hate to get a reputation as a traitor.”

  “Scheiss,” said Anja.

  “Time to hide,” said Bao.

  “Don’t worry,” said Sahara, and pointed down the dock in the other direction. “Cygnus Protocol swoops in to save the day.”

  Marisa looked, and saw another trio of cars coming toward them, almost identical to the first: black paint, black windows, and the menacing bulk of some very expensive armor upgrades.

  “Yeah, we’re definitely hiding,” said Bao, and Marisa looked down to see him and Anja dragging Bennett’s body into a small control shack at the base of the crane. “I know a mobster showdown when I see one.”

  “What did you perras do?” demanded Renata.

  “Who did you . . . ?” asked Marisa. She looked at Sahara, questioning, and then she figured it out.

  “Who hates Don Francisco even more than we do?” asked Sahara, and grinned. “Lavrenti Severov.”

  “A la verga,” Renata muttered. “If you screwed me out of my payday—”

  The first motorcade stopped, and Sergio stepped out of the lead car. Two armed men joi
ned him, each holding an assault rifle, their eyes hidden by jet-black optic implants. The second group stopped several meters away, another trio of men ready to face the first—dressed the same, armed the same, and ready for the same trouble.

  “This is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen,” said Anja.

  “They’re children,” said Zenaida dismissively. “Always trying to prove they’re the biggest boys on the playground.”

  Sergio started talking, and Marisa tried to listen, but they were too far away to hear. “Anja,” she whispered, “what are they saying?”

  “They’re introducing themselves,” said Anja. “The Russian mobsters seem like they were expecting the Mexican ones, but it’s all a big surprise to Sergio.”

  Zenaida turned to Sahara. “You called them here—what’s your plan? Just let them kill each other?”

  “That’s my brother down there,” said Omar. He looked at Zenaida. “That’s your son.”

  “I sincerely hope that nobody kills anybody,” said Sahara. “And I don’t think they will—Severov has had people in LA for years, and if all they wanted to do was murder some Maldonados, they could have done it anytime.”

  Zenaida scoffed. “That doesn’t mean they won’t take advantage of the opportunity now that you’ve dropped it in their laps.”

  “I offered Severov something better,” said Sahara. “He doesn’t want to kill Don Francisco—he wants to hurt him. And what would hurt Don Francisco more than anything else in the world?”

  “The same thing that’s been hurting him for the last fifteen years,” said Marisa. “Knowing that his wife is alive and well and somewhere he can never reach her.” She looked at Sahara in shock. “You’re giving Severov Zenaida?”

  “Never,” said Zenaida.

  “He promised to keep you safe,” said Sahara. “Killing you just gives Don Francisco a reason to come after him. Keeping you alive and safe and far away will eat Don Francisco alive.”

  “I’m not a bargaining chip,” said Zenaida, and looked down at the arguing mobsters. “And I’m not someone’s tool of revenge.” She looked back at Sahara, and her eyes were fierce. “You girls have a lot to learn, but learn this now: if I go with Severov, the thing that bothers Francisco won’t be losing me, it will be losing me to another man. I’m just a prize to him.”

  “We know that,” said Sahara, “that’s why—”

  “You don’t know,” said Zenaida. “Or if you do, then you don’t understand, because this whole plan of yours is using me in exactly the same way. I am not leverage, for him or for you or for anyone else.”

  Sahara stared at her, then sighed. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “What else can you do?” asked Marisa. “You can’t just stay up here forever.”

  “I can leave the way I’d always planned to,” said Zenaida, and held up the radio beacon. “See this yellow indicator? They’ve answered my call, and they’re on their way. They probably think I’m Rodney, because this is his beacon, but they’ll take me. Everyone needs a doctor.”

  “Is that what you’ve been doing in La Huerta?” asked Omar. “Hiding out here, and working as a medic?”

  Zenaida nodded. “My training’s in biology, but for most of these people that’s close enough.”

  Marisa felt her heart lift, thinking of her father. “Do you do surgery?”

  “No,” said Zenaida, and Marisa’s heart sank again.

  “So that’s it?” asked Omar. “You’re just leaving?”

  “Can you honestly say your life would be better if I stayed?” asked Zenaida. She stood up, and Omar struggled to stand with her. Sahara helped him up, and he gripped the platform’s narrow railings for support.

  “I . . . don’t even know you,” said Omar.

  “It’s probably better that way,” said Zenaida. “Whoever I turn out to be, I can promise you that I’m not who you think I am. Or who you think I ought to be.”

  Omar studied her for a moment, then nodded. “Well. You have my ID. If you can’t stay, maybe we can at least stay in touch.”

  Zenaida paused before answering. “I’d like that.” Her radio beacon started beeping, and she looked toward the derelict ship on the far end of the crane arm. “My ride’s here. Tell . . .” She stopped, and bit her lip, and looked back at Omar. “Tell Pancha I miss her. Tell her that she’s beautiful, and that beauty doesn’t matter half as much as she thinks it does. Tell Sergio that I’m sorry, and tell Cinto that . . . that he’s a better person than he realizes.”

  “And my father?” asked Omar.

  “Tell him everything we said here,” said Zenaida. “He’ll ask, so you might as well. But I have no special message for him—or no, I do. Tell him that I don’t live in his world anymore. If he still insists on searching for me, it’s because he lives in mine.” She smiled faintly at the thought, and then put her hand on Omar’s arm. “For you, I’ll just say this: don’t become him. There’s a good man in you, if you can find him.”

  Omar watched her for a moment, then nodded. “Okay.” Marisa couldn’t tell what he was feeling as he said it.

  “And you,” said Zenaida, and turned toward Marisa. She put her hand on Marisa’s arm—the metal one. “Don’t become me.”

  “That’s . . . not what I was expecting you to say,” said Marisa.

  “I don’t know you,” said Zenaida. “I think you’re a good person, because there’s no other reason to be up here on this crane trying to save the woman who cut off your arm with a shovel.” She patted the arm, then let her hand drop. “So be yourself, because it’s obviously working well for you, but don’t forget to be the kind of self that other people need.”

  Marisa stared back at her, not certain how to take that. Finally she just looked at Omar, then back at Zenaida, and said the only thing she could think of. “Okay.”

  “Say good-bye to your friends for me,” said Zenaida, and turned and climbed out onto the arm of the crane. Marisa glanced down at the mobsters, still arguing, and wrote a message on her djinni: She left. She didn’t choose either of you. She found their IDs, bounced the signal through a handful of different satellites, and sent the text to both of them. She looked back at Zenaida, almost halfway to the ship, and then sat down and watched her as she finished her climb, clambered down the cargo nets, and disappeared.

  “They’re leaving,” said Anja. Marisa looked down from the crane to see both groups of mobsters getting in their cars and driving away.

  “I promised them Zenaida,” said Renata. “If you pinche migas cost me my money—”

  “You did everything he hired you to do,” said Omar. “Maybe for the first time in your life. I’ll make sure you get paid in full.”

  “I . . . okay,” said Renata. “Sold. What else can I do for you?”

  “Send me an account where I can send your money,” said Omar. “And then never bother us again.”

  “How much to not bother you again?”

  “I’m not paying you to leave.”

  “Too bad,” said Renata. “It won’t be my fault if we run into each other again sometime.”

  “Bennett’s awake,” said Bao.

  “Say hi from me,” said Marisa.

  Bao paused, and Marisa heard muffled speaking from his end of the phone; it was a handheld, so it picked up a lot of ambient noise. After a moment he spoke again. “She says you’re a stinky doo doo head. I had to clean that up a little.”

  “Put her on,” said Sahara. They heard the muffled talking again, and then Bennett spoke. Bao must have been holding the phone to her ear.

  “What do you want?” asked Bennett.

  “Nothing,” said Sahara. “You’re free to go. Nothing you did was illegal, as stupid as that is, so we’re not going to turn you over to the cops or leave you here or anything else. Your current objective, as I assume you’ve noticed, doesn’t exist anymore, so you’re done here, and we’re done with you. Anja and Bao will untie you, and no one’s going to hurt you, and we assume you?
??re enough of a professional to not hurt any of us.”

  “You shot me,” said Bennett. “My arm is broken.”

  “That was Renata,” said Marisa. “And I told her not to.”

  “Thanks a lot,” said Renata.

  Sahara smiled. “Do you need a ride to the hospital?”

  Bennett groaned. “I’ll be fine. Cut me out of here and help me get my jacket back.”

  “Done,” said Anja. “Hold still. Here’s your jacket, and—oh. New hologram.”

  Marisa looked down and saw Bennett walk out of the shack at the base of the crane. She was cradling her arm, and her skin wasn’t green anymore—it was bronze. Marisa frowned. “She activated her holomask?”

  “You could say that,” said Bao.

  “What face is she wearing?” asked Marisa.

  “Yours,” said Anja.

  Ramira Bennett turned and saluted the top of the crane, and Marisa saw her own face looking up at her. She waved back, stunned. Then Bennett walked away, disappearing into the streets of La Huerta.

  “You don’t see that every day,” said Sahara.

  “Actually I do,” said Marisa. “That’s what makes it so weird.”

  Sahara moved to the side of the platform, putting a hand on the ladder that led down the side of the crane. “Let’s get out of here. I’ve got a date tonight, and it’s going to take hours to clean up from this . . . running gunfight through a black-market shantytown? Is that really what we just did?”

  “I love us so much,” said Anja.

  “Hot date,” said Marisa. She stood up, stretching her legs after the half hour of crouching on the platform. “Who with?”

  “A girl from Omar’s party,” said Sahara. “Yuni.”

  “Yuni’s awesome,” said Marisa.

  And then she looked at Omar. Did she still want that kiss? She tried to parse her own feelings. She still wished she had kissed him, but she didn’t really want to kiss him now. The moment had passed, and the confusion had returned; it was something about the way Zenaida had talked about him, she thought. There was a good man in there somewhere, if Omar could find him.