“You’re hurt,” Marisa insisted, moving past him as quietly as she could. Was Anja back, or was this someone else? Lal? Tì Xū Dāo? A looter? Her father was still sitting by the door, slumped and unconscious from the drugs. Was he in danger? Maybe the intruder wasn’t dangerous at all—maybe it was Sandro, or Gabi, coming from the house. But wouldn’t they have called first, or at least sent a ping? What if they were—
A handgun barrel came through the door first, millimeter by millimeter, long and silver and lined with blinking lights, humming just loud enough to hear in the silent room. A rail gun, like the gangsters had used. Behind it came a hand, and then an arm, bronze and tattooed, and before the head and body even appeared the arm swiveled directly toward Marisa, the gun pointed at her chest. She planted herself in front of Bao, and stifled a gasp as Calaca, bleeding and haggard, limped the rest of the way through the door.
“Buenas noches, Marisita,” said Calaca. His eerie demeanor was cracked and splintered, the menacing calmness barely concealing a fierce anger. “I apologize for any inconvenience I’m about to cause you, but you have information I need, and I don’t have time to ask nicely.”
“I don’t know anything—”
Calaca fired his gun, the noise deafening in the enclosed room, the magnetically accelerated bullet tearing through the air so close to her head she could feel the heat of it. She fell to the side, clutching her ear, eyes wide with fear. Bao grabbed her shoulders, holding her tightly, but neither of them dared to speak again.
“You did not let me finish,” said Calaca. His voice had the familiar cadence he always used—bizarrely calm and erudite—but with a raw, angry undercurrent breaking through. “I just had to beat up my own sister, and tie her to a chair to keep her from killing her own kids, so you’ll excuse me if I am impatient. Before we begin I consider it prudent to establish some ground rules, so listen carefully. I’m going to ask a question, and you’re going to answer it, and that’s the only thing allowed in the room: you and me, questions and answers. Anything that comes out of your mouth that does not answer my question will get shot at. Here’s the first question, as a trial run of this process: Is that clear?”
Marisa nodded.
“It’s okay to say it out loud,” said Calaca, “as that is the purpose of this exercise. Let’s try again: Is that clear?”
“Yes,” said Bao, “but we—”
Calaca fired again, and Marisa dropped to the floor, covering her head. As soon as she realized she wasn’t hit she spun around, terrified to see Bao with a bullet in his forehead, but he was fine—cowering, like she was, but unhurt. Behind them, the last of the wall screens had gone black, the hole in the center of the fractured screen gently smoking. She turned slowly back to Calaca.
“You said two words that weren’t part of an answer,” said Calaca. “Count yourself lucky that I was able to shoot the screens without hitting you—despite my extensive training with firearms, I can’t guarantee that I’ll be so lucky in the future.” He glanced at the broken windows, then back at Marisa. “Now. As mentioned previously I’m in something of a hurry. This is the second time today that our barrio’s been attacked, and you know something about it. You’re the one who tipped us off about Bluescreen, and we’ve been doing our due diligence with that information, and now every single person I know who’s taken the drug—including my sister—is attacking people. Something’s going on. Answer carefully: Do you know what it is?”
Marisa stared back, trying to think of how to answer. He wanted to know where the Bluescreen headquarters was, but if she told him he’d go there in force, with all of La Sesenta’s gun’s blazing, and they’d shut it down through violence. With thousands of puppets connected to the server, a sudden shock like that would put them all into the same, brain-dead coma as La Princesa—thousands and thousands of people. She couldn’t let that happen. They’d start a fight with Tì Xū Dāo, and it would only get worse from there.
Is that what the algorithm was doing—protecting the programmers?
She realized with a start that some of the screens in the room were still showing the Bluescreen warehouse. She glanced at Bao. The wall screens were all broken, but if Calaca looked at one of the smaller ones . . .
“It appears you’ve found a loophole in my instructions,” said Calaca. “Allow me to close it. If I ask a question and you say nothing, I’ll shoot your father.” He moved his handgun, pointing it at the sleeping Carlo Magno, and Marisa started talking desperately.
“I know some of it,” she said quickly. While she talked, she blinked into the San Juanito network controls, trying to replace all the screen images before he saw them. There were four left, and she went to work while she talked. “Bluescreen is a drug that installs a control program in your djinni, allowing someone else to take control of your body, like a puppet. I don’t know why all the puppets are attacking, or who’s controlling them.”