Hollowgirl (19 page)

AS CLAIR WALKED
back to the hub, she turned over in her mind everything she had just learned. It sounded preposterous, dangerous, borderline insane, but it was an opportunity she couldn't turn down. She had thought splitting up was a good idea, and she still thought so now, even though it meant leaving everyone else behind. If she could get to the exit on her own, with no loss of life, Clair Two would have to admit that she was right. When or if she woke up . . .

Clair had told Mallory and Nobody that she would meet them back in that office in one hour, but she hadn't promised she would come alone. She could bring the full force of WHOLE behind her, if she wanted to. Maybe they could all work together and still achieve the same goal.

It could go either way. Two people might succeed where an all-out assault would fail. It certainly hadn't worked when WHOLE had attacked the VIA building in the real world. But the thought of being alone with someone like Mallory, far from her friends, made her nervous.

“How did you manage with the ripping?” Ronnie bumped her. “Any luck sending that grenade?”

Clair hefted it, feeling slightly guilty. She hadn't tried, not even once. “Still here.”

“Don't worry. It was a long shot.”

“Maybe I'll try again later.”

“I'm not sure that practice makes perfect in this case,” Ronnie said. “The connection's either there or it isn't, you know? Besides, Jesse's dad is now telling everyone to stop killing the hollowmen. If we can take one alive, that'll give us a different way to get to where they come from.”

That plan made sense, but there was an obvious downside.

“What if they don't agree to help?”

“Doesn't matter. The connection will still be there.”

“And when we don't need them anymore . . . ?”

Ronnie hesitated. “It's horrible, I know . . . but it's for the greater good.”

Clair didn't mention the two live “connections” sitting in an office not far away. Or remind Ronnie that some of the people trying to get into the prison weren't hollowmen at all, but innocent people who thought they were doing the right thing. She was sure Ronnie already knew that last bit and was trying her best not to think about it.

War had turned Clair Two into an emotional cripple, a monstrous version of who she had been. Already, Clair could see her friends falling under the same spell.

It was time that stopped.

Instead of going into the hub itself, she took a sudden left turn and headed for the hospital.

Sargent was sitting in the open door, pistol at the ready on her lap. The picture of vigilance was ruined by the way she leaned against the jamb, sound asleep. Clair tiptoed past her, heart in her throat. The room was full of tables. On the tables were mattresses, and on the mattresses were unconscious people. The air stank intensely of blood and medicine, but that wasn't the only thing urging her to run.

One other person in the room was awake. He sat in a far corner, next to a body that looked dismayingly small in its medical cocoon. Jesse's head was down and his hair covered his face. The urge to run to him was very strong.

Clair fought that urge, as she had fought it ever since Harmony, when all of Clair Two's feelings had come crashing into her. They didn't belong to her. They infiltrated her body, heart, and mind, totally against her will. She didn't want them, and the only way she could stop them was by staying away from
her
—but how was that possible when everyone kept pushing them together?

She had thought it would be safe with Clair Two stuck in a hospital bed, but here she was again, too close for comfort.

Her foot brushed against something on the floor, making a slight noise. Jesse looked up, saw her, and nodded.

“Hey,” he said, softly, mindful of Sargent's rest.

She forced herself to move purposefully to his side rather than dive on him, hating every conflicted footstep. Her palms were sweating, making her grip on the grenade feel treacherous. Before she reached the hospital bed he guarded, she found a pocket in her armor large enough to take the grenade and put it away.

“Hey,” she said, taking a seat opposite him so that
she
was between them.

“I wondered if you'd come,” he said.

Great,
she thought.
Guilt me into feeling bad. It wasn't my fault she got shot.

But that thought was positively childish. She took a deep breath and rubbed her temples, wishing she could think straight around the two of them.

“I had to,” she said, and she supposed that was true. She forced herself to look. What she saw on the bed barely seemed human. White plastic formed a rigid shell that stopped Clair Two from moving during her recuperative coma. The shell had gaps in it so specialty patches could be maintained; there was blood around several of those gaps where emergency measures had been hastily performed. A sensor net monitored her brain waves, and Clair Two's head had been shaved to give the electrodes better contact. That detail was worse than anything Clair imagined might lie beneath the shell. She looked simultaneously tiny, enormous, vulnerable, threatening . . .

A flash came to her of a giant head floating across the sky, a man's head with sweeping black hair and a ridiculously high collar around his neck. Where had that come from?

It took her a moment to remember the dream. She'd forgotten it almost immediately on waking.

Maybe, she thought, it wasn't her dream at all, but Clair Two's. . . .

“I have to get out of here.”

“What?” Jesse brushed his hair back, revealing his eyes.

She didn't realize she'd spoken aloud. “I mean, I've got to go somewhere and I wanted to talk to you about it first.”

“Go where?”

Clair struggled to keep herself focused. She had never consciously noticed Jesse's eyes before, but Clair Two had and they were a rich green that made her skin pucker in a good way. Zep had never made her feel like this. Was that what love was like, even secondhand? If so, she had to fight it. Jesse wasn't her boyfriend. She barely even knew him. The one moment she had let herself go with the tide and reach out to him, he'd made it
very
clear where his allegiances lay. It was hard not to feel wounded and confused, and to wonder when she would experience something like that for herself.

“PK Sargent has been working so hard. . . .” Clair hadn't really known what to say until she saw the peacekeeper asleep in the doorway. Then the idea had popped into
her head fully formed, as though it had been there all the time, awaiting its moment. “Finding Lalie Hagopian for your dad, finding the Unimprovables for Libby, keeping everyone safe . . . It doesn't seem fair that she gets nothing in return.”

Jesse nodded. “She volunteered to keep watch here. I can't bring myself to wake her up.”

“Right. So it's high time someone did something for her. Billie, her girlfriend, is out there somewhere. I'm going to bring her in.”

“To the prison?”

“Yes, where she'll be safe. And they'll be together.”

“How?”

“With Q's help. And if you can learn to rip, why can't I?”

He looked uncertain for a moment, and then grinned at her. “I think that's an amazing thing to do.”

She resisted a wave of sappy sentimental feeling for him. It made her feel like she was drowning. “Great. Because I need you to cover for me with your dad. Tell him I'm in a blind spot still thinking about the damned grenade. Okay?”

“I'll keep Kari busy too,” he said eagerly. “I know she watches Billie sometimes. If she sees you, she'll guess what you're up to.”

Not likely, she hoped, but she could've kissed him anyway, in gratitude. She'd wondered what to do about that particular problem.

“Thanks,” she said, getting up to leave.

“Listen,” he said, half standing himself, “about our talk earlier—”

“Don't worry about it,” she said, keen to get away. “I understand. We're all trying to do the right thing, in our own ways.”

“That's all we can do.”

“Just look after her,” she said, by which she meant,
Keep a close eye on her.
She wouldn't wish such terrible injuries on anyone, but if it kept Clair Two out of the picture while she did what needed to be done, that worked for her. Better that one girl suffer a punctured lung and whatever else than for all-out war to bring human life to a full stop. Clair would find the exit herself, and no one else would have to suffer.

“I will,” he said, easing back into the chair at Clair Two's side. “You be careful out there. You're enemy number one, remember.”

She nodded. His concern pained her. It was too desperately magnetic and tragically counterfeit. She hurried from the room as quickly as she could, fighting tears of frustration. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Not for her, not for him, not for anyone.

The world had bent and twisted around Clair Two. It was long past time someone twisted it back.

ON THE WAY
back to the blacked-out office, she bumped Q and asked to chat. Q responded immediately; with the decreasing number of attacks and glitches, she had become a lot more available. Clair spun her the same line that she'd used on Jesse. Poor Sargent, dedicated and alone. No one would expect Clair to bring Kari's girlfriend in, although Billie might need some convincing. . . .

Q, the clever machine, was predictably obliging.

“Wilhelmina Orlagh Lane is in Dublin,” she said. “I can show you exactly where, and provide you with a mask so you won't be detected en route. You will appear to her as Saoirse McKirdy. The person that name belongs to has presented herself to the census, but your face will not match. I therefore advise staying out of sight of drones.”

Clair had forgotten about LM Kingdon's census. That made things trickier.

“Thanks, Q. Also, I want this to be a surprise, so the fewer people who know, the better. That's why I'm doing it alone. I don't want to risk anyone else.”

“I understand and will keep your secret.” Q's mechanical delivery reassured Clair that she suspected nothing. “I'll watch for threats in your vicinity—”

“No, that's okay.” That was the last thing she wanted. “You concentrate on keeping everyone safe here. And
don't worry if you don't hear from me for a while. If things get strange, I promise I'll just come back.”

Q hesitated, then said, “Of course, Clair One.”

Clair One,
she thought.
Will I ever be just Clair again?
Maybe when she was reunited with her mother. Surely
she
would recognize her as the real Clair.

The thought of Allison reminded her of what was at stake if everything went wrong. Clair Two had had the shadow of Improvement falling over her, and the crash, and the blue dawn. She had something much simpler, and much more fixable, although it took courage she hadn't possessed until now to make the attempt.

“Tell Libby . . .”

“Yes?”

“Uh, doesn't matter. I'll do it myself.”

Clair searched the prison interface. Libby was still asleep, which was a small relief. There wasn't time for a long conversation about this, although they would need to have one eventually. Clair bumped her so the message would be waiting for her when she awoke.

“I'm sorry about Zep. I was an idiot, I know, for keeping my feelings for Zep secret from you. You're my best friend. I trust you to be honest with me, and I feel awful that I wasn't with you. You have to believe that I'll never, ever do anything like that again. The thing with Zep is over—it was never even anything at all—and it's gone now, completely, I promise.”

Clair hesitated, then added, “I want to make it up to you. I hope you'll believe that, even though everything is so screwed up right now. I'm trying to make it right. For you and me, and for all of us.”

She could feel herself getting maudlin, and perhaps a little morbid, too. The note was starting to feel like a farewell. She ended it there, and sent it, and hoped that when Libby woke it would be to good news.

“Okay, I'm ready.”

Mallory stood as Clair entered the office. Nobody was standing in the corner, facing out, eyes glittering and alert.

“You look ready,” he said. “That expression is becoming very familiar.”

Clair didn't know what her face was revealing, but she wouldn't let him intimidate her the way he would've intimidated Clair Two. An echo of that feeling was bad enough.

“So how are we going to do this?” she asked Mallory. “I don't know how to rip. . . .”

“I do,” Mallory told her. “All you need to do is hold my hand and do exactly what I tell you.”

Both prospects made Clair uncomfortable, but she was committed now. No point being squeamish.

She held out her left hand, and Mallory took it in her right. The woman's skin was smooth, and her nails were
impeccable, painted red with a silvery shimmer. Her fingers gripped Clair's tightly, almost to the point of discomfort.

Mallory turned her to face the door leading out into the hallway.

“You know what Billie looks like, yes?”

Clair nodded. Q had sent several reference images of the slight, purple-haired woman with moles on both ears, plus images of her environment.

“Hold her in your mind . . . everything you know about her . . . her name, her clothes, her connection to PK Sargent. Hold it, and when I count to three, jump.”

“Jump how?”

“I mean literally jump, though the doorway. We'll leave together.” She raised their clasped hands. “And when we get there, I'll jump back here, so there's no chance of Ant spotting me. I'm masked like you, but it's best not to take chances with the drones. You can come and get me when you're done.”

So she would be in Ireland alone? Clair had second thoughts. What if Wallace planned to drop a nuke on her or something equally dramatic? Mallory would be safely on the other side of the planet.

“You stay with me,” Clair said, “or we're not going at all.”

Mallory hesitated.

“You said it earlier,” Clair insisted. “Ant Wallace is
looking for Clair Two and her army, not two people visiting a face sculptor.”

“All right. It's your funeral. On three, remember?” Mallory squeezed her fingers so tightly that bone ground against bone. “One.”

They lined up on the door. Clair put Billie Lane firmly in her head and tried not to think about what it would look like if she jumped out into the hallway holding hands with Mallory Wei.

“Two.”

Beside her, Mallory tensed like a panther, and Clair noticed for the first time how muscular she was. Agewise she had to be late forties, but she had the body of an athlete in her twenties. Improvement at work?

“Three.”

Purple hair, moles on each ear, PK Sargent's girl.

“Hey, Clair . . .
huh?
”

Zep had appeared in the doorway in casual fatigues, his mouth a perfect O of surprise, halting Clair in midleap.

Nobody didn't hesitate. He pulled Zep inside and despite the massive difference in their sizes twisted him around, forcing his face forward.

“Take his hand,” he growled at Clair.

That was easy. Zep was already reaching for her, saying something confused and shocked that she paid no attention to at all.

Then Zep and Clair were gripping each other, and
Mallory tugged her forward too powerfully to resist. They were going anyway. Clair stumbled but managed an awkward leap through the door, dragging Zep after her, pushed by Nobody from behind. The beginnings of Zep's cry of alarm were lost in the airless chaos of ripping space. The Yard twisted around her with the never-normal-but-now-familiar lurch of every possible sense. Clair struggled to keep her thoughts on Billie, and on Mallory's and Zep's hands too, because if she lost touch with either of them there was no way to tell where they'd all end up.

The disorientation peaked with another glimpse of the floating head, and then, oddly, Sargent's face, but she assumed that was because of where they were going.

She hoped Billie wouldn't freak out if they arrived right on top of her.

The Yard wrenched her violently from side to side, depositing her momentarily in an icy forest in the middle of the night. “Clair!” gasped Zep. “Clair, what's going on?”
Billie,
she thought, not letting her mind stray.
Billie.

They ripped again, at Mallory's wordless insistence.
“Out of sorts and out of the blue,”
said a voice. It was Sargent again, sounding as though she was riding along with them, but that was impossible because she was still asleep in the prison.

Solid ground hit the soles of Clair's feet, as though she had gone from running to standing in a split instant. Her hand pulled free of Mallory's. Zep crashed headlong into
her, throwing her forward into a table, which squeaked dramatically across a tiled floor and banged into a cream-colored wall. As she lay draped across it with him pressed against her, catching her breath and feeling him do the same, Clair realized that she
knew
that wall and everything around it. She had seen it in the images Q had given her. To her right was a painting of a mime, and to her left fresh flowers in a wall sconce, a spray of pink, green, and purple. She could smell them.

“Where are we?” asked Zep, pushing himself off her. “What's going on?”

“Billie's face-sculpting practice,” she gasped. “PK Sargent's girlfriend.”

“What are we doing here?”

“She's not around,” said Mallory, pulling herself upright. The room was indeed empty.

“Did someone get here before us?” Clair asked.

“I don't know.”

“Isn't that . . . you know?” hissed Zep, pointing at Mallory. “Clair—”

“Sorry, sorry!” called a voice from the other side of a bead curtain separating the antechamber from the exam room. “I'll be just a second.”

The voice was light and accented—predominantly British, but there was a hint of the local Irish. It had to be Billie. In case it wasn't, Clair removed her pistol and held it behind her back. Zep's eyes widened on seeing it.

“Be quiet, and don't bump
anyone
,” she hissed at him. “I'll explain, I promise. You just have to trust me.”

He looked ashen and afraid. “How do I know you're really you?”

“No dupes in here, remember?” she said. “Besides, a dupe would've shot you rather than brought you along for the ride.”

“Take your time!” Mallory called back to Billie, casting Clair and Zep a warning look. “We're happy to wait.”

She opened the room's only solid door and checked the street outside. Bright daylight poured in, accompanied by a sharp, cold breeze. Mallory pulled her head back and turned the lock so they wouldn't be disturbed. Her gaze swept across the room's fixtures and decor as though expecting something to leap out at her at any moment.

The beads rattled. Mallory turned to face the doorway, and so did Clair and Zep.

Billie was pushing through backward, turning as she came and wiping her hands on a robin's-egg-blue towel. She looked exactly as Clair had imagined: short, rounded, with delicate features. Her hands were small but strong, and she wore a ring that was a match for Kari Sargent's.

“Sorry,” she said, “I had to go to the—”

On seeing the pair waiting for her, she stopped dead. Her eyes widened.

“Holy freaking hell,” she said to Clair. “It's you.”