But Clair would never have used Improvement on her own. That was the fact of it. For all of Libby’s charm, it came with a dark side. Insecurity and doubt plagued her, which was why she played the star so hard. And that was okay. That was utterly forgivable, if it brought results. Clair didn’t want Libby to change a thing.
Except maybe the name of her little gang. It was better than Clair’s Bears, but not by much. . . .
“So,” Libby went on, getting down to business, “Team RADICAL and Team WHOLE are going to be doing their things. We need to work with them or else they’ll forget us when shit goes down. You know what they’re like. We have to go out there and get their attention, then share what we learn on the group chat. We’ll meet regularly to work on our plan, and to train. No one’s going anywhere without us.”
A cheer went up. Libby clapped her hands and the meeting dissolved. Clair watched them go, thinking, There’s a group chat?
Clair bumped Libby to see if she could join.
“No” came the immediate reply. “You need some time to get it together. And so do I. Call you later, promise.”
Zep had stayed behind. Libby led him to one corner of the mess, where they sat down opposite each other and started to talk, haltingly at first, then in earnest.
Clair neither watched nor listened in. Libby’s response had stung, although she could see where it had come from. Clair One had gone off on her own, without trusting her friends or even letting them know what she was doing. She had lied to cover her tracks, and trusted two of Clair’s worst enemies.
Clair didn’t want to be in the position of having to apologize for Clair One. And neither did Libby. In time, things would be easier. If they had time. . . .
Switching off her feed from the prison, Clair rubbed her closed eyes with her one free hand and eased back onto the mattress, not realizing how tense she’d become. Her eyelids swam with random colors and shades, from bright to deepest blacks. There were lots of other things she could watch, lots of other people going about individual duties, but she was tired. She lay back on the bed with her eyes half lidded, gazing up at the empty ceiling and wondering what Clair Three had been doing during their brief conversation.
Only slowly did she become aware of someone sitting next to her bed.
“Are you awake?” asked Allison Hill. “I don’t want to disturb you.”
Clair froze, unsure which emotion out of so many she was feeling most urgently at that moment.
“What? You’re not disturbing me,” she said, hearing and hating the tightness in her voice that suggested she might be lying. “How long have you been there?”
“Just a few minutes.”
“Where . . . where did you come from?”
“Windham. I went home after the census to look for Oz.”
That wasn’t what Clair meant.
“What’s the last thing you remember? Before . . . all this?”
Allison thought about it, and that brief pause was the longest in Clair’s life.
“They took me from the safe house,” Allison said. “They promised me I’d see you. They brought me somewhere else by d-mat, and they told me to wait. They said they were friends of yours, but I don’t think they were. I’m not sure about these people either, but they got me out of there, and I’m with you now. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
Clair, nodding, agreed with all her heart. This was no Allison Hill from days ago, who knew nothing about dupes or Ant Wallace or anything else that had happened. This was the Allison Hill who had been kidnapped before the attack on the seastead, and whom Clair had feared she might never see again.
She burst into tears and reached out for her mother’s hand.
[43]
* * *
HAVING HER MOM back wasn’t just a good thing. It was the best thing in the world at that moment.
“Oz? He’s here too. He doesn’t remember everything, but that’s probably a blessing. I told him to make himself useful finding and bringing in the others who might be kidnapped. He sends his love and promises to come see you later.”
Clair had rolled onto her good side, the better to look at her mother while they talked. It was more gratifying than she had expected, having someone who knew her for who she was, rather than who she used to be. Only Kari, Clair Three, and Q could claim that. Two of those were largely unavailable, and Kari had only been herself since coming to the Yard. She was a friend, but nothing compared to the woman who had given Clair her entire life.
“I still can’t believe the lawmakers tried to take over the world,” Allison said, staring into the steam of her coffee. “Ronnie’s great-uncle was one, you know.”
“What was his name?”
“Kieran Defrain.”
Clair checked the list Jesse had found of lawmakers in Kingdon’s service. His name wasn’t there.
“I guess he was okay,” Clair said.
“Some of them had to be. No group is ever entirely evil. Like Abstainers.”
“Like Grandma Juliet.” When Allison looked surprised, Clair explained, “Q told me.”
“Ah. You were just a toddler then. She went a bit crazy toward the end—not that being an Abstainer means you’re crazy—”
“I’m so glad you don’t think that.”
“I really don’t.” Allison smiled. “Juliet traveled the world without setting foot once in a booth. That was so brave of her. I never told you because I thought it’d freak you out. And now look at you. Just as brave. Even more so.”
Clair felt another cry coming on and fought the urge. She had yet to confront what life would be like as an Abstainer, and wouldn’t have to until she was out of the Yard and back in the real world. That was when she would have to earn the adjective “brave.” There were probably thousands of things she hadn’t even considered. . . .
“I thought you’d be disappointed in me.”
“Disappointment is for people who can’t accept that their children never turn out exactly like them.” Allison smiled again. “Your grandmother left me her diary. I should give it to you when all this is over. You might find it interesting.”
“We might have to give it to Clair Three, too.” There was a small silence. “Does that freak you out?”
“Of course it does. But you know . . . ? I’ve spent the last few days not knowing if you’re dead or alive. If I end up with two of you, that’s just good news twice over. Like twins.”
“We had twins at school,” Clair said. “Two boys, Felipe and Fernando Deboo. They hated each other.”
“Who’d hate you?” Allison leaned over and stroked the stubble on Clair’s skull. “My little girl. You make me so proud. But I’m glad you’re going to be sitting out the big push in here. I don’t want you hurting yourself again. Losing one of you is quite enough. . . .”
Clair didn’t pursue that thought. Seeing her mother had opened the floodgates of grief on that front, and it was still a tender area. Clair One had died. It could easily have been her, if the bullets that had hit her had found a different mark. From Clair One’s point of view, it had been her.
“Do you remember Charlie?” she asked her mom. “That old clown of mine?”
Allison laughed, a joyous sound that echoed through the hospital like sunlight off a mirror. She put a hand over her mouth and nodded.
“Of course I remember. You took that thing everywhere.”
“Remember the time I lost him?”
“Which time?”
“When we went to see that pyramid in South America, whatever it was called.”
“El Castillo. Did you have him with you then? I just remember you slipping out of the booth and getting left behind.”
“I went back for Charlie because I dropped him outside.” She studied her mother. “You really don’t remember that part? You told me you could’ve just made me a new one.”
“Did I really say that? That wasn’t very sensitive of me. I was probably so worried about you I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“Of course. We did plenty of times.”
“What?”
“Oh, you were always losing that thing. I can’t begin to guess how many replacements we made. Sometimes people would find the one you’d lost and give it back after we’d already made a new one. We’d have to recycle the old one so you wouldn’t notice.”
Her mother’s eyes twinkled cheerfully at the memory, and perhaps at Clair’s obvious discomfiture as well.
“You never guessed?”
“No. When you said you could, I didn’t know you did. . . .”
“Is that why you brought it up? To tell me I could have a replacement Clair instead of the one I lost?”
“No.” Clair bit her lip. “I was going to say that I’m starting to understand how hard it is to tell someone what they don’t want to hear.”
Allison sat back into her seat.
“You’re not sitting this one out, then.”
“Not if I can help it,” Clair said, shifting awkwardly on the bed. Her right hip and shoulder were beginning to ache. “The patches are working. I’m healing. It’s important I be part of this.”
“And you are part of this, darling girl, on the outside and in here.” Allison wiped at her eyes. The cheerful twinkles were gone now. “I worry about you. PK Sargent says you’ve been having nightmares. If you don’t have PTSD already . . . All right, all right. I know better than to argue with you. If it’s physically possible for you to do it, you’ll do it. I just wish you wouldn’t. That’s all.”
She leaned forward and rested her forehead against Clair’s fingers. Clair heard her mother inhale deeply and exhale, but didn’t know what to say to make Allison feel better. I’m going, Mom—get over it was never going to help.
Allison sat up, a determinedly calm expression on her face.
“I should let you sleep, but first, tell me about Jesse Linwood. He was here when I arrived. You’ve been seeing a lot of him lately, I gather. Is there anything I should know?”
Oh, Mom, she wanted to say, you have no idea. . . .
But it was easier just to protest embarrassment and outrage at prying parents than to explain the complexity of her love life. Jesse hadn’t come to visit her once, and he still wasn’t answering her bumps. She could feel his hurt through his silence and the heavy stone walls of the prison, but she didn’t know what to do about it. She’s not me, Clair wanted to say. I wasn’t the one who used you. . . . But deep down she knew that would be a lie.
Instead she turned the conversation back to Oz, who Clair was sure had everyone organized into working parties on rosters by now. He’d been in the prison, what, an hour?
As they laughed, Clair felt a warmth between them that she knew was real, as real as anything else in the Yard. She and her mother would learn how to share that warmth with Clair Three if they had to. There was more than enough to go around.
[44]
* * *
CLAIR SLEPT FOR a while, and dreamed things she tried hard to forget when she woke. Her right arm was twisted beneath her, requiring that she spend an uncomfortable few minutes shaking out pins and needles before she could use it again. Real.
When she was able to, she reached for the bottle of water by the bed and swished out her mouth in a vain attempt to get rid of a faint medicine taste on top of the usual postsleep furriness. She was glad Jesse wasn’t there to witness her unglamorous awakening, not to mention her first attempt to use a bedpan. Look on the bright side, she told herself, lest his rejection of her sting too much.
When she was feeling human again, she switched her lenses on and checked the prison interface.
Team Clair had been busy. Ronnie was now Libby’s official attachment to Team RADICAL, keeping an eye on their efforts to open the channel to the outside world, while Tash had seconded herself to Team WHOLE. With Jesse, she was on the testing range, watching as a series of bizarre new weapon designs poured out of the fabbers.
Elsewhere, Kari was putting Libby and Zep and the Unimprovables through their paces. There were exercise and weapons drills, lessons in hand and voice signals, and the occasional cheesy-looking but seemingly enjoyable trust games. Some of the Unimprovables had used guns before. Some had basic street-fighting skills. Most of them were ordinary kids like Libby and Clair had been. All were willing—and pissed.
Only once was the question of their age brought up.
“Barely out of your diapers,” sneered one of the grizzlier Yetis who had stopped by to watch. “You’ll turn and run the moment it gets real.”
Tilly Kozlova stood up to him, tall, skinny, and unafraid of his wild hair and tattoos.
“Young people like me were being killed for years while old folk like you hid out in the woods,” she said, poking him in the chest. “Don’t come here thinking you can tell us anything.”
Clair wanted to cheer, but she kept it to herself. She didn’t want to disturb any of her fellow patients.
Half an hour later a contingent of eight Yetis showed up to help Team Clair train, and Clair felt like cheering again. For all their attitude, Team Clair was no army. They had a lot to learn if they were going to have half a chance against the hollowmen.
That evening, Dylan Linwood called a meal break and all three groups met in the mess to bring each other up to date. WHOLE made sandwiches from the store of fresh food they had brought from the caves. Everyone else ate fabbed meals. Clair worked her way into a sitting position with both arms free and sipped steadily at a protein smoothie. For the first time since her shooting she had an appetite. Her body was mending fast and needed raw materials.
“We have a glitch-mobile in the works,” Jesse said to the assembly. “It’ll carry people in a group without needing an ordinary vehicle. It can also go into a rip without immediately coming out the other side, so it can’t be followed.”
Clair watched him with a lump in her throat. She felt like a stalker, watching him when he wouldn’t even reply to her messages. Was he avoiding Clair Three, too?
“What about weapons?” asked Evan Bartelme. “What have you done with the glitch-guns?”
“The obvious thing would be to scale them up,” said Dylan, “so we haven’t. The hollowmen have seen them in action, and we assume they’re working on defenses. Instead we developed a new kind of glitch-gun that puts a missile into a target rather than takes bites out of one.”
“A missile like a grenade?” asked Zep.
“Doesn’t need to be anything so dramatic. Put a rock in someone’s heart and they’ll be dead just the same.”
That was an unpleasant thought, and the way Jesse grimaced suggested that he didn’t like it much either.
“We’re also working on ways to link people together so they can communicate without using the Air,” he said, glancing down at a list written on the inside of his wrist. “There are a few other pie-in-the-sky projects in the works, such as camouflage transforms that could in theory disguise you as anything you want, reality bombs that do what the glitch-guns do, only much bigger . . .” He shrugged. “But it’s all speculative, and I don’t know how much of it will actually work. We’re getting into some really lethal territory now. One mistake could wipe us all out, so we’re taking it very slowly.”
“He sounds worried, and he should be,” said Q in Clair’s ears only.
Clair replied before Q could drift away.
“What do you mean? I’m sure they’re being extra careful not to hurt themselves.”
“It’s not that. War takes a toll. I worry that the cost of this one might be too great.”
“You think we should give in and let Wallace win?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Getting information out of Q was hard these days. Not so long ago, she had been like a tap Clair couldn’t turn off. Now they were lucky to exchange a sentence or two. She was busily keeping the link between the Yard and the real world open against Wallace’s attempts to close it again, T
eam RADICAL said.
“Please, Q,” Clair prompted when the silence stretched on. “Tell me, or at least tell what I’ve done to make you not like me anymore.”
“Why would you think that?” said Q, in a sudden return to her usual self. “That’ll never happen.”
“So why didn’t you answer me?”
“I was just thinking. What I meant was that there are two wars underway at the moment: the obvious one, and the war against the Yard itself, waged by people like Team WHOLE. Every time a rule is broken, by ripping or using a glitch-gun, the Yard is slightly damaged at its basest level, down in the numbers. Too much damage could be catastrophic.”
Clair put down her smoothie, contemplating this new concern.
“I thought glitching and ripping were safe,” she said.
“They are, in moderation,” said Q. “Like everything.”
“How much is too much?”
“I don’t know.”
“What happens if we go too far?”
“I don’t know.”
Q not knowing things was worse than Q not saying anything.
“Could it be as bad as when Mallory wanted to put Clair One into the exit?”
“No,” Q said. “I don’t think so, anyway.”
Again, far from reassuring.
“Is there anything we can do to prop things up if they get shaky?” Clair asked. “Create our own rules, say?”
“That is an interesting idea,” Q said. “I could attempt to write new rules into the fabric of the Yard whenever I see a rupture forming.”
“Would that work?”
“I don’t know. If clusters of local rules conflict with the rules around them, there would be consequences.”
“As long as we don’t all die, Q, go ahead and do what you need to do.”
“I thought you would feel that way.”
Q’s tone changed, and that sent an alarm bell ringing.
“What are you trying to tell me?” Clair said. “Just come out and say it, whatever it is.”
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