Twinmaker (16 page)

“Yes.”

“But it can’t be,” she said in disbelief. “We got rid of the note.”

“This proves that your location is being tracked by means other than the note.”

“What do I do now?”

“You must disconnect from the Air and go to your fourth destination.”

She balked at that. Disconnecting from the Air would be like locking herself in a coffin and nailing it shut.

“Think of something else,” she said.

“I cannot. This is now the most likely method your pursuers have used.”

“But if I leave the Air, no one will know where I am.”

“Including the man following you.”

“Yes, but . . . oh, damn it.”

She opened another booth, didn’t enter.

“What if I disconnect now and then reconnect when I arrive?”

“Any direct connection is undesirable.”

“Is there any way just to
hide
my connection?”

“Not in the time remaining, Clair.”

“All right, but first I need to bump Mom and Dad—”

“You have five seconds precisely, Clair.”

The whirring of the active booth reached a crescendo. It was going to open any moment.

She shot into her booth and asked for the Tuvalu monument. As the door shut, she called up menus and options in her lenses.
Disconnect. Sever. Disallow. Isolate.
Interface by interface, she plucked at the ties connecting her to the rest of the world. Her augmented senses, her sunburn epidermals, even the pedometers built into the soles of her shoes—everything.

sssssss—

One by one, the patches in her lenses went dark.

“Wait,” she said as the air thinned around her. “If I do this, how will I talk to you?”

—pop

IT WAS SUNNY in the Pacific. There was nothing but ocean in all directions. A full circle of booths opened up on a broad viewing platform with unobtrusive holographic displays showing where the islands had once been. The tiny former nation had a special
place in the history of the twenty-first century as the first country destroyed in the Water Wars. Where some had fallen in armed conflicts and others had crumbled from within, Tuvalu had simply vanished beneath rising seas. Clair had learned about it in high school but couldn’t care less now.

For the first time in her life, she was truly alone.

There were people around her, presumably tourists and perhaps some grandchildren of the now-stateless Tuvaluans as well, but she couldn’t discover anything about them by reading their public profiles, just as she couldn’t access the platform’s multimedia options, metadata tags, or even Muzak. She couldn’t talk to her parents, her friends, anyone. She couldn’t caption the experience (a snapshot of the endless ocean:
Not a drop to drink!
). The world was entirely cut off from her, and she from it.

It was unendurable.

Don’t do it
, she told herself.
Don’t give in and reconnect. You can stay offline for a few minutes, if that’s what it takes to shake him. Give it ten, and then move on, reconnect somewhere else. Maybe fifteen. See what happens. It won’t kill you, whereas Dylan Linwood very well might.

Her stomach felt sick and watery. She picked a spot at random and tried to look inconspicuous. It wasn’t hard, and that was a relief. She wished she could roll back the days to the crashlander ball and leave when Libby had. That way she wouldn’t have kissed Zep, and the wedge of Improvement wouldn’t have been
driven between her and her best friend.

Except Libby had been using Improvement already, and Clair had already had feelings for Zep. A crisis had been coming all along.

You want to swoop in and solve all my problems.

You just can’t help yourself, can you? You just won’t leave well enough alone.

Libby’s accusations stung because there was some truth to them. Clair wasn’t naturally gregarious and might have languished in bookish obscurity had it not been for Libby’s efforts to bring her out of her shell. To Libby, it came easily. Noticed everywhere she went, she was spontaneous, provocative, and charming. In that sense she made a perfect match for Zep—and Clair had wondered if that lay at the heart of Clair’s attraction to both of them. They opened up her world while at the same time allowing her to be herself. She had never once felt that she had to change who she was in order to fit in, and for that, Clair knew, she would always be grateful.

But social life wasn’t everything, and it had always been clear that Clair had had an advantage over Libby in other areas. A teacher had once supported her mother’s belief by telling Clair that she was more stubborn than smart. It was probably the most honest thing any teacher had ever told her. Not everyone was born a genius, like Tilly Kozlova had been. The concert pianist was barely five years older than Clair, and for a while Clair had had an obsession with the rising star that had only passed when Clair’s
mom had started using her as a goad for working harder at piano lessons. For all Clair’s fantasies of growing up to be like her—or even just Libby, funny and outgoing and loved by everyone—Clair knew she wasn’t the same as either of them. She was good at most things but not a genius at anything, and so she had to be determined most of all. When Clair wanted to understand something, she worried at it until the veils fell away, like the literary puzzles of James Joyce or the art mazes of Esther Azikiwe.

Hours ago Dylan Linwood had been foaming at the mouth about d-mat in the principal’s office. Now he had not only apparently faked his own death but was threatening her parents and following her all over the world. How did that work? Whose side was he really on? What did that side
want
?

There were few things she had resigned herself to never understanding, and she swore this whole thing—this
WHOLE
thing—wasn’t going to be one of them.

“Is there a Clair here?”

Clair jerked out of her thoughts at the unfamiliar voice. It came from a large woman in a floral dress and matching lenses. A complete stranger.

“Maybe. Why do you want to know?”

“Your friend asked me to tell you that he is still coming,” the woman said.

“What?”

“That’s what your friend says: ‘He is still coming.’ Do you
know what she means?”

Clair cupped the base of her skull with one hand and bunched up her greasy hair. She nodded.

“Does she . . . my friend . . . say where to go?”

The woman shook her head. Her florid eyes tracked up and then to the left, checking a menu. “She’s gone. I’m sorry, dear. Are you all right?”

“I . . . thanks.”

She had to move on or Dylan Linwood would find her. Whatever he wanted, she wasn’t going to stand here and let him get it.

Picking a booth at random, she stepped inside and asked for Melbourne, where Jesse had dreamed of going to see his grandfather. She had never been there and figured she might as well go now, even if she would see no more of it than a d-mat station.

sssssss-pop

Clair blinked. Her eyes felt weird. Her hand flew to her right ear. There was something clinging to it that hadn’t been there before. In her reflection, she saw a wiry clasp that pressed against the skin of her skull. An old-fashioned headset.

The ear-rings in her auditory canals were gone. She wasn’t wearing her contact lenses.

The door opened, revealing an empty plain in the middle of nowhere.

Not Melbourne. And her pattern had been
changed
.

“No,” she said, backing as far as she could into the booth. “This can’t be happening. . . .”

“Don’t say or do anything,” said a now-familiar childish voice through the tinny headset.

“What’s going on?” she cried. “What have you done to me?”

“I am changing your public identity so someone searching for ‘Clair Hill’ won’t find her here. According to the Air, your name is Pallas Diana Hughes.”

“What does that mean?” she asked, touching her nose. It was the same as ever. Her face looked frightened in the mirrors surrounding her but hadn’t changed an iota.

“I am saving you.”

The door to the d-mat booth closed before she could slip through it. She hammered at it, but it wouldn’t open.

sssssss-pop

This time the door stayed shut.

“Saving me from what? From Improvement?”

“Your name is Rebecca Watts-Veldhoen,” was all the voice said.

sssssss-pop

“Your name is Shun Fay Anderson Wong.”

Clair’s reflection looked bloodless and desperate—the same hair, the same nose, but the fright in her eyes was new.

sssssss-pop

Claire could be anywhere. Would she step out of the booth twenty-five years later with two left feet and her heart on the wrong side of her chest? Would she lose her name and be stuck, unable to convince anyone of who she really was? Would she end
up like Libby, beautiful, with a new nose and proud of it . . . or brain damaged and delusional?

Clair wished she could sit down with her best friend and find out was really going on. One proper conversation would be enough. At the very least, one good look at her cheek. . . .

sssssss-pop

The earpiece was gone. Her lenses and ear-rings were back. She winked on the call patch blinking in her infield.

“Your name is Clair Hill, and you are safe.”

THE DOOR OPENED. Clair stepped shakily from the booth and looked around. Dusk was thickening in the California sky. She smelled the sea. Definitely Manteca again. There was the same mix of tourists and commuters. The same summery twilight sky, even in November. She had come full circle.

There was no Dylan Linwood, and no one from WHOLE, either.

She thought she might weep with relief. But she couldn’t afford to let herself. It wasn’t over yet.

“What did you do to me?” she asked over the open call to “q.”

“I cut all the connections between you and the rest of the world. Then I made you look like someone else—not physically but semantically, so anyone searching for you through the Air wouldn’t
see you. Now I’ve built you a mask to hide behind. All your identifiers are temporarily scrambled—name, address, preferences, history—everything that makes you look like you. The disguise will allow you to interface with the Air without being discovered, but I advise against contacting anyone you are closely associated with. That may draw attention to the mask, and therefore to who you really are.”

There were five benches arranged in a pentagon around the base of a broad-trunked tree. She took a seat, bouncing her right leg compulsively up and down as she tried to watch every direction at once, half expecting Dylan Linwood to leap out of a booth and attack her again, no matter what “q” said.

“Are you saying I can’t call my parents? Or Zep? Or anyone?”

“No, Clair. You can, but I
strongly
advise against it. I can tell you that your parents are in no danger, if that helps. Their injuries are superficial. They are of no value to your enemies now that you have escaped the trap they set for you.”

“Did the peacekeepers come?”

“Yes.”

“Does that mean they’re
not
my enemies?”

“I do not know, Clair.”

“Can I at least go see Mom and Oz?”

“You should avoid using d-mat for the foreseeable future.”

“What?”

“A search is currently under way for you. I can hide your identity from the Air, but there’s no hiding your DNA from VIA. All
transits will be red flagged.”

Clair wiped sweaty palms on her skirt. Slowly it was sinking in that “q” had indeed gotten Dylan Linwood off her tail. But at what cost? By isolating her from everything and everyone she knew. And only by
changing
her pattern . . . reaching into it and editing out her lenses and ear-rings . . . in a way that was supposed to be utterly impossible.

Whoever “q” was, she had just done everything Improvement said it did. The implications were immense. On top of the possibilities that Improvement might be causing brain damage and Dylan Linwood was trying to kill her, it was too much. Clair wanted nothing more than to bury her head in the sand until it all went away. Clearly that wasn’t possible. The best she could do was hope to understand it one piece at a time. Starting with the piece that had nothing to do with murder or anyone apparently coming back from the dead. . . .

“You changed my pattern,” she said. “How did you do that?”

“As long as I maintain parity and don’t hurt anyone,” the voice said, “I can do a lot of things.”

“I don’t know what you mean by ‘parity.’ Doesn’t changing someone set off an alarm?”

“Material objects come under far less scrutiny than people, which makes them much easier to reroute or create from scratch. That’s all a fabber does, after all, and fabbers are allowed to do it as often as you ask them to, because you only ever use them to make
things
. The difference is a legal one: Peo
ple are alive and shouldn’t be duplicated or altered like hats or chocolate bars can be. The trick I used was to change a person’s tag from
alive
to
material
so I could alter your pattern—your lenses and your ear-rings, specifically—and then change it back before anyone spotted it happening.”

“Like you did with my name?”

“Something like that,” “q” said. “When a pattern is taken by a d-mat booth, two very important things happen. First, it’s checked against databases containing prohibited compounds, genetic records, and so on. Most people are licensed to carry most things through d-mat, but suicide bombers shouldn’t be allowed to, and neither should young kids trying to run away from home. If the database doesn’t reveal anything like that, the transfer is given a conditional green light. This phase of the process is handled by one of the two AIs VIA uses to keep the system running safely.

“Now, if you think of the first AI as the conductor of a bus—”

“A what?”

“An outmoded mass-transport vehicle.”

“Like a train?”

“Kind of. If the first AI, the conductor, is the one that checks your ticket as you get on and off the bus, then that makes the second AI the driver of the bus. Its job is to get you safely to your destination without being duplicated or erased or sent to a booth that doesn’t exist.