Marisa thought a moment, holding in the sigh she so desperately wanted to release. She could slap the boy and storm off in a rage—give Sahara’s viewers something to talk about for days—but that seemed so harsh, and Omar didn’t deserve harsh. At least, not yet. No one in their group was completely innocent, legally speaking. Bao was an accomplished pickpocket, and Marisa had raided more private databases than she cared to admit. If it turned out that Omar had a hand in what was happening to her family, she’d hurt him in ways he’d never see coming, but for now . . . well, for now the Futura Noble looked inviting as hell. Her dress fit perfectly, her hair looked great, and she was out on the town with her friends. Why let their fathers’ feud spoil the fun?
Omar offered his hand, and she let him guide her into the autocar. Marisa sat by Bao—the seats were even more comfortable than they looked—and Omar stepped in and settled across from her, next to Sahara. Cameron and Camilla were perched on opposite sides of the ceiling, catching perfect views of all four faces. Marisa had seen Omar’s car but never ridden in it; in a neighborhood like Mirador, where most people couldn’t afford a car at all, it was a shocking display of opulence.
“I miss anything good on your show?” asked Omar, pointing at the drones.
“Marisa called you a chundo,” said Bao. “I don’t know what it means, but she sounded angry when she said it.”
Marisa faked a smile. “Thanks, Bao.”
“After what happened at the restaurant, I’m glad to hear that’s all she said,” replied Omar. “But I really don’t want to think about any of my dad’s business crap tonight. Let’s go have some fun. Pedro! Close the door and take us to Anja’s house.” The door closed just as silently as it had opened, and the autocar pulled into the street with an almost eager purr from the engine.
“You have the most expensive car in Mirador,” said Sahara, “and you call it Pedro?”
“Pedro’s a powerful name,” said Omar. “Pedro was the first apostle.”
Bao smiled. “So now the first apostle’s driving you around. This went from self-effacing to a power trip in, like, one second.”
Omar laughed. “Honestly? I named it Pedro because that’s what my grandfather called his first car, some tiny little Ford, like a Festiva I think. He drove that thing everywhere; that’s how the family fortune started, hauling newspapers through some little pueblo in Texas.”
“He was a paperboy?” asked Sahara, laughing gleefully at the idea. “When was this, a hundred years ago? I don’t think I’ve ever even seen a paper newspaper.”
“The last one closed distribution ten years ago,” said Marisa, calling up the search on her djinni. “In Idaho, of all places. Most of them closed ten or twenty years before that, but some small towns just really wanted to keep the tradition alive, I guess?”
“As long as you’re looking stuff up,” said Bao, “how long has it been since anyone had to drive their own car? Was the Festiva the last one?”
Marisa caught Omar’s eye, an unintentional moment of shared . . . what? Experience? Pain?
Bao didn’t know what he was asking.
“You can actually still engage manual drive on cars today,” said Omar. Marisa was surprised he didn’t change the subject. “You could probably drive this one if you had a license.”
“People still have licenses?” asked Sahara. “I mean, obviously motorcycles, but cars, too?” She looked around in obvious enthusiasm. “Where’s the . . . handles? Or joystick? How do we do it?”
“I really don’t recommend it,” said Omar. “Cars can drive themselves more efficiently and more safely than any human operator.” He recited the line as if he were reading a marketing report, and for all Marisa knew that’s exactly what he was doing through his djinni. That, or he’d memorized all the reasons why his own personal tragedy should never have happened. “Since the move to autocars thirty years ago, fuel economy’s increased a hundredfold, and traffic jams and collisions have dropped virtually to zero.”
“I’ve heard about car accidents,” said Sahara. “I just always figured they were due to autodrive malfunctions.”
“Sometimes they are,” said Omar. “Other times it’s people, thinking they’re . . . I don’t know. Something. Smarter than a computer.”
“Have you ever tried it?” asked Sahara, still oblivious to the tension slowly mounting in the car.
“What are we going to eat tonight?” asked Bao, abruptly trying to change the subject. “Order in, or pick something up on the way?”
Had he noticed something in Marisa’s face? She blinked her djinni over to Sahara’s vidcast, watching herself as she sat in the plush leather seats of the rolling party lounge. She looked haunted. She glanced at Omar again, wondering what he was feeling. If he was feeling anything. The silence dragged on, until finally Marisa stretched her robotic left arm across the table.
“Yes,” said Marisa calmly, “sometimes people still drive their own cars.”
Sahara raised her eyebrow. “That’s how you lost your arm?”
Marisa nodded, tapping her fake fingers on the table. “I was two years old.”
Bao’s voice was soft. “Who was driving?”
“My mother,” said Omar. “She died.”