“Sometimes I feel bad taking advantage of them like this,” said another girl, and hiked up her skirt just a tiny bit more.
“I’m beginning to think that I grossly misjudged the power dynamic here,” said Marisa, and Yuni laughed again.
“Go easy on them,” she said. “Looks like Omar dragged them here from a club—they’ll be half hammered already.”
The party bus rolled up, and Omar leaned out the window with a whoop. The gate to the estate opened, and a pair of long-suffering security guards watched as the boys piled out of the bus and grabbed the girls—or were grabbed by them—and strutted into the estate. Marisa found Sahara and followed her in, waiting for the subtle ping that said the doorway scanners had read her ID. It came and went, and nothing happened. The deception had worked.
Outside the gate, the estate looked as plain and featureless as a warehouse, but on the inside it was a verdant wonderland. Flowers and trees of every variety seemed to crowd up from every patch of free space, and humidity hung in the air like a welcoming breath. Marisa had always seen the plants as a sign of opulence—they had money and resources to throw away on luxuries while the rest of LA struggled to survive—but now, after hearing Omar’s story about his mother’s garden, it looked different. It was still a staggering display of wealth, but it felt . . . almost sweet, in a way. Don Francisco had lost his wife, but he had kept her favorite thing alive and magnificent.
The group passed under the overhanging trees to a side door into the main house, where music was already blaring; through the branches Marisa could see the two other buildings in the compound, a guesthouse and a massive garage, but both were closed and dark. Sahara was moving her body in time to the music as they walked, feeling the beat in a way that Marisa was too nervous to emulate.
Try to look like you’re enjoying yourself, sent Sahara.
This is my “enjoying myself” face, Marisa sent back. Can’t you tell?
Is that also your “enjoying myself” body language?
If I throw up from nerves maybe I can pass it off as being drunk.
Omar was already behind the bar, passing out soda and shots and everything else people wanted to drink. Marisa watched his easy smile, and the mischievous wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, and wondered how he did it. He looked as happy and natural as anybody in the party, and yet just yesterday he’d been nervous and terrified and alone. How did he turn all of that off, and turn on this instead? It was like he was two different people.
Now that she thought of it, he was probably more than just two.
“Hola, morenita,” said a young man approaching her. His breath reached her just behind the words, and she struggled not to make a face at the powerful odor of alcohol. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before, nena.”
“How many of these things does Omar have?” asked Marisa. “Do you all know each other but me?”
“I know maybe half the girls here,” said the boy, slurring his words just enough to raise the hairs on the back of Marisa’s neck. He was holding a brown glass bottle, and gestured around the room with it. “And the ones I don’t are hot as hell, but none of them are as hot as you.”
He was too close, and Marisa didn’t have any convenient routes of escape. She kept her face neutral, not smiling to encourage him but careful not to offend him either. She asked the least sexy question she could think of. “Are you in business school?”
“Machinzote,” said the boy, flashing some kind of finger sign. “Making the yuan and getting paid. You like getting paid, nena?”
“You know what?” asked Marisa. “I need to go talk to somebody.”
“You’re talking to somebody right now.” He took another pull on the bottle in his hand. “What’s your name?”
“I need to go,” said Marisa.
“That’s a funny name,” the boy slurred. “My name is I Want to F—”
Before he could finish his sentence he jerked upright, straightening his spine so far it arched backward. Sahara had come up behind him, and was holding his arm in a tight, twisted hold that looked like it was straining every joint from his thumb to his shoulder.
“Hi,” said Sahara. “My name’s I Know How to Break This Hand Right Off at the Wrist. My last name is just you screaming.”
“Get off me, bi—”
Sahara twisted his arm a little farther, and he bit off his comment with a grunt of pain.
“Get off me what?” asked Sahara. “It started with a ‘bih’ sound, like you were going to say ‘big-time internet celebrity’ or something. Was that it?”
“It was—ow!” She twisted again, and he winced. The rest of the room was so crowded and noisy, nobody even seemed to notice them. The boy groaned, then spoke again. “That was it,” he said. “Big-time, um, internet—ow!—celebrity.”
“That,” said Sahara, “was very nice of you to say. It’s always good to meet a fan. I’m going to let go of you now, and you’re going to go to a different part of the room and leave my friend alone for the rest of the night, okay? And if you don’t, I’m going to tell you my middle name, and you are really, really not going to like it.”
“Yeah,” said the boy, “I’ll go.”
Sahara released him, and he staggered away with an audible rush of breath. He turned back toward the girls, and took one step toward Sahara. She calmly raised her hand, palm up, and curled her fingers to beckon him forward. He stopped, thought better of it, and stumbled off into the crowd.
“Thanks,” said Marisa.
“I keep telling you,” said Sahara. “Self-defense classes.”
“I shouldn’t need to defend myself,” said Marisa. “Boys should just . . . be better.”
“How well did that dream of a better tomorrow protect you just now?”
“Point taken,” said Marisa. “Thanks again.”
“Any time, babe,” said Sahara, and gave her a fist bump. “Cherry Dogs forever.”
“How long do we have to wait?” asked Marisa. “The party’s just to get us in the door; now that we’re in here he’s supposed to take us to the mainframe.”
“He needs to achieve Full Party Stability first,” said Sahara. “If he leaves too soon it will collapse without him.”
Marisa searched the crowd again, and found Omar dancing with the Salad Bowl girl in the middle of the floor. The music was some kind of Korean-Cuban rap, and he moved like it was second nature to him; it was all in the shoulders and the hips, the arms and legs barely moving at all, but it was sinuous and rhythmic and powerfully masculine—
“Whoa,” whispered Sahara. “You’re staring.”
“I’m what?” asked Marisa. “No I’m not.”
“You are,” said Sahara. “At Omar.”
Marisa felt her face start to flush. “I’m just waiting for him to come over and take us to the mainframe.”
“I think I know the difference between waiting and staring.”
“Fine,” said Marisa, “I was staring.”
“Why?”
“Why?” asked Marisa. “What do you mean, why?” She looked at Omar, his shirt half-unbuttoned, his jeans tight around his hips, and then looked back at Sahara. “Are we talking about the same person?”
“I’m a lesbian.”
“No one’s that lesbian.”
“You can’t stand him.”
“I can’t stand the things he does,” said Marisa. “It’s not my fault he does them inside of a visually perfect body.”
Sahara smiled. “I remember a time when the mere sight of him would make you fly into a rage.”
“You’re kind of gunning for that status yourself right now, Former Best Friend.”
“Fine,” said Sahara. “I’ll stop talking about it.”
“Thank you.”
“Can I tell the other girls?”
“I will literally murder you.”
Another voice intruded on their conversation, like silk dipped in venom. “Well, well, well.”
Marisa looked up to s
ee La Princesa, Omar’s older sister, standing in front of them with her hands on her hips. The iridescent purple MyDragon was perched on her shoulder, its tail wrapped protectively around her neck. Marisa did her best to sound polite. “Hello, Franca.”
“I never thought I’d see the day,” said Franca. “You can’t tell me you’re here as guests. Servers, maybe? Are you supposed to be taking drink orders?”
“Omar invited us,” said Sahara.
“Then excuse me a moment,” said Franca. “I have to send the devil a sweater.”
“There are so many jokes I could make right now,” said Marisa. “How do I pick just one?”
“Seriously,” said Franca, “what are you doing here?”
“We’re thinking of buying the place,” said Sahara. “Tear it down, maybe build a very tiny theme park.”
“I should have you thrown out,” said Franca. “Do you know what my father would do if he knew you were here?”
“With like a little tiny roller coaster,” said Sahara, “that only goes around in a loop.” She drew a circle in the air with her finger. “Just one loop.”
“That’s called a Ferris wheel,” said Marisa.
“We could put her face on the side of it,” said Sahara. “Call it the Franca wheel.”
“That’s not even an insult,” said Franca.
“No insult intended,” said Marisa. “We’re naming our imaginary Ferris wheel after you out of genuine admiration.”
“We will need to buy your merchandising rights, though,” said Sahara. “I assume they’re still available?”
“That’s about enough,” said Omar, stepping quickly between the girls. “I saw you talking from across the room and I knew there was going to be trouble.”
Franca looked at him like he was covered with mud. “You knew they were here?”
“Friend of mine is a big fan,” said Omar. “Cherry Dogs forever, or whatever the slogan is. He’s out in the garden, though, so I’m going to take them out for a quick autograph.”
“And then you throw them out,” said Franca. “You know what our father will do if he finds out you had a Carneseca in here.”
“He’ll do it to both of us,” said Omar, “so cállate la boca, okay?”
“Don’t talk to me that way.”
“Cállate la boca,” Omar repeated. “Keep this party going while I get rid of them.”
“Fine,” said Franca, and turned to leave, but took a final look at Sahara. “That dress is killer, by the way. Die in a fire and whatever, but: respect where it’s due.”
“Thank you,” said Sahara.
Franca walked away, the MyDragon looking back at them with tiny golden eyes. Omar put his hand on Marisa’s shoulder and guided her toward a hallway.
“I was really hoping she wouldn’t notice you,” he said.
“What will your father do if he finds out I’m here?” asked Marisa.
“Nothing to you directly,” said Omar. “Probably. No promises, though. Maybe lean on your restaurant a little.”
Marisa clenched her teeth and tried to look unnoticeable.
“What’ll he do to you?” asked Sahara.
“Nothing you want to hear about,” said Omar.
He opened a door at the end of the hall, leading them through a small kitchen where a pair of cooks were busily adding garnish to a series of refreshment trays. Omar put on his roguish smile, as quickly and easily as if he had put on a hat, and stole a sushi roll off one of the trays.
“Ay, qué feo,” said the cook, swatting at his hand.
“Afilado,” said Omar with a grin, and pushed open the door to take the girls outside. Sahara giggled girlishly, like they were doing something innocent and wicked at the same time, and then they were outside in the driveway, and the door clicked shut behind them.
Night had fallen more completely now, though the lights from the city were too bright to let any stars shine through. A vast web of flying nulis glittered across the sky in their place.
“Okay,” said Omar. The charming facade was gone again, replaced by a grim set to his jaw. “Follow me.”
Marisa and Sahara slipped off their high-heeled shoes and crept silently through the empty yard, following Omar’s lead. Light and noise spilled out from the open windows of the main house, but the rest of the estate was dark, lit only by a scattering of lamps that shone dimly through the trees. Sahara’s nulis stayed behind, taking footage of the party and, Marisa hoped, fooling the online audience into thinking they were still inside.
“Remember that time we snuck out of first grade?” Omar whispered.
“You thought you heard an ice cream truck,” said Marisa. She smiled at the memory. “Turned out it was a cholo in a lowrider, blasting the bass.”
“What kind of ice cream trucks did you have here?” asked Sahara.
“Awesome ones,” said Omar.
He led the girls behind the garage, down a narrow walkway between the building and the armored outer wall, and then to a small back door on the guesthouse. It unlocked when it detected him coming, and the house computer greeted him with a soft, feminine voice when he opened the door.
“Good evening, Omar. Is there something I can do for you?”
“No thank you, Sofia,” said Omar. He stepped inside, and when Marisa followed the lights dimmed, and a speaker in the wall started playing a slow, sultry song. Omar rolled his eyes.
“I think Sofia is coming on to me,” said Marisa.
“He’s alone in the guesthouse with two girls,” said Sahara, stepping in and closing the door behind her. “Sofia knows exactly what that usually means.”
“I have a full selection of beverages in the main bar,” said the house computer.
“No,” said Omar, “this is nothing like that—bring up the lights, shut off the music—”
“Wait,” said Marisa, “this is good. One more layer of cover, right? Hey, Sofia?”
“Yes, Nastia?”
Marisa nodded; her fake ID was still working, and the house was completely fooled. “Can you link our IDs to the bedroom?” she asked. “We want anyone who looks or asks to think we’re in there together.”
“Deception is contrary to my purpose,” said Sofia.
“Do it,” said Omar. “On my authorization.”
“Yes, sir,” said Sofia. Marisa smirked but said nothing. Apparently Omar had built a few backdoors into his house computer, just like she had. She hadn’t known he had the skills to do it. There was apparently a lot she didn’t know about Omar.
Omar led them through one hallway and down another, walking softly through the mood lighting and make-out music. “The second floor here is Jacinto’s, and he almost never leaves it. Sofia, is Jacinto asleep?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good,” said Omar, and looked at Marisa. “I don’t know how happy he’d be about us messing around in his system. It’s my father’s server farm, but Jacinto built it—”
“Whoa,” said Marisa, “a whole farm? Why do you need so much power?”
Omar shook his head. “That’s a question for my father, not me. I know what we do, and I know how doing it makes us money, but I have no idea how much computing power it requires. Here it is.” He stopped in front of a door at the end of the long hallway and tried the handle. “Sofia, can you open this for me?”
“I must remind you that your father is the admin account for my system,” said Sofia, “and the mainframe room is a priority location. If you go inside, your father will be able to see it, no matter where I register your IDs.”
“Is my father awake?” asked Omar.
“No,” said the computer, though Marisa had no idea how anyone could sleep through all that noise in the main building.
“Then open it,” said Omar. A small light over the keyhole turned green, and Marisa heard the lock click. Omar opened the door, and they walked into the room beyond.
“Holy crap,” said Sahara.
The mainframe in most homes was small—a distributed
network that tracked people, appliances, light switches, and locks, with no more hardware of its own than a scattering of palm-sized panels built into the walls. The Maldonado mainframe was four full towers of drives and processors, half of it majestically professional and the other half cobbled together from a mishmash of boxes and cables. They even had cooling tubes mixed into the spiderweb of wires and cords. It was far more computing power than they would need for even a three-building estate; they could run an entire corporation with this.
“Holy crap is right,” said Marisa.
“Is this a lot?” asked Omar.
“Your cluelessness astonishes me,” said Sahara. “Are you really so rich that you don’t know what a normal person’s house computer is?”
“My father doesn’t do things halfway.”
“Whatever,” said Marisa, looking at the clock in her djinni display. “Plug me in and get me past the biometrics.”
“Híjole,” said Omar, frowning at the knotted cables. “Did you . . . bring your own cord?”
“Of course I did,” said Marisa, sighing and pulling a long white cord from her purse. “Just . . . give me a minute.” She studied the towers closely, trying to guess what each of them did and which would be the best to plug into. Finally she shrugged and plugged the cable into a port on the cleanest-looking of the towers, and clipped the other one into the djinni port at the base of her skull. A welcome message appeared in her djinni display, offering her a variety of options; she blinked on the archive, thinking that was the best place to start looking, and a screen lit up on the side of the neighboring computer tower:
“Biometric Passcode Required.”
Omar pressed his hand against the screen; it read his fingerprints, heart rate, and other vitals. It blinked again, asking for a retinal scan, and he held his eyes in front of the small camera at the top of the screen. A moment later the system blinked, and the screen shut off, and the menu in Marisa’s djinni display unlocked.
“Got it,” said Marisa. “This is just broad access, though; I’ll need to work pretty hard on any files your father has sealed.”
“How long will it take?” asked Omar.