Twinmaker t-1

by Sean Williams

  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.”

  26

  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 c
hanged 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: People 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.

  “These two AIs, conductor and driver, are bound by a principle similar to the laws of physics: that in a d-mat booth, unlike a fabber, matter can neither be created nor destroyed. Even though both happen at opposite ends during the jump, it has to look as though it didn’t.”

  Clair was about as vague regarding physics as she was buses. It was a struggle to keep up with what “q” was telling her.

  “What happens when it doesn’t?”

  “That’s called a parity violation, Clair. Equilibrium hasn’t been maintained, and an alarm does sound. It’s the number one alarm in VIA. It can’t be ignored, and you can’t turn it off, because it means that at least one of the AIs is broken. The only way to fix things quickly is to crash the entire system, reboot it again, and hope the break isn’t permanent.”

  “Which obviously hasn’t happened, or we’d have noticed,” Clair said. “How did you work this out?”

  “It’s right there in the algorithms, if you know where to look.”

  “Do you know who else might be doing it?”

  “No, Clair. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. If anything, I should thank you for what you did back there. I was completely out of ideas. It was clever of you to figure it out.” She paused before adding, with all the parental firmness she could muster, just in case the owner of the voice was a child, “But please don’t spring something like that on me again. If you’re going to muck around with my pattern, you have to warn me in advance. You have to ask my permission.”

  “I promise I will, Clair. I’m sorry.”

  “No, really, don’t apologize. Just, well . . . I don’t know. Hopefully there won’t ever be a next time.”

  Her mind reeled at the implications of what “q” had told her, but there were greater issues calling for her attention. She looked around, still worried about people creeping up on her while she was distracted. She knew this station. It was four blocks away from school, putting her northwest of the WHOLE safe house.

  “Why did you bring me here?” she asked. “You could have sent me anywhere you wanted. What’s so special about Manteca?”

  “You have to go back for your friend Zeppelin Barker: that is what you said in South Africa. You can’t just leave him behind. And this is where he is.”

  Clair almost laughed even as she was reminded of the predicament Zep was in. “You know who those people are, right? The ones who are holding him prisoner?”

  “I do not. Their identities are obscured, even when they are connected to the Air.”

  “That’s because they’re WHOLE, and they eat people like me and Zep for breakfast. At the very least, you could’ve given me a gun before sending me back in there.”

  “I could if you wanted me to.”

  Clair rubbed her brow with the knuckles of both hands. She had been joking about the gun, but not about Zep. Rescuing him was critical, if she could only find the energy to get moving again. She felt like every vein in her body was full of mud.

  “What I’d like more than anything is a cup of coffee.”

  “Go to the third booth on the right.”

  She forced her weary legs into motion and jumped to the front of the queue.

  “Sorry,” she said to the commuters whose journeys she was briefly interrupting. “I’m expecting something.”

  The door opened, revealing a plastic box big enough to hold a large melon. It had an identity patch addressed to Carolyn Edge. Clair pressed her right palm against the patch until it flashed green and unsealed. Then she took the box back to the bench and eased the lid open.

  The first thing that hit her was the scent of fresh coffee. It was like a shot of energy straight to the brain. The insulated mug it came in wasn’t drawn from her private pattern catalog, and the brew, she suspected, wasn’t her favorite, but that was okay. It was still caffeine—and if someone was looking for her, the less evidence she left of her presence, the better.

  Next to the mug was a bundle of fresh clothes and a pair of sneakers. Again, not her favorites—lightweight travel gear in grays and blacks, anonymous and easy to layer—but at least they looked to be her size. The new clothes went with her new identity or mask or whatever it was, she assumed. There was a new backpack, too, the same nondescript color scheme as the clothes.

  Inside the backpack was an automatic pistol.

  She touched the cold metal with the tip of one finger.

  No, she told herself, this is crazy.

  Or was it?

  In all her life, she’d never fired a gun. Her parents had never owned one. But when people started pointing them at her, didn’t it make a kind of sense to point one back? It wasn’t as if she had to actually fire it or anything.

  Clair shoved the pistol under the clothes, well out of sight, and stuffed it all into the pack.

  She wanted nothing more than to shower and drink her coffee in peace. A headache was throbbing behind her right eye.

  Reprisals, she thought, remembering something Gemma had said in the safe house. The man WHOLE is trying to kill . . . That was what “q” had called the person holding her parents hostage. That person had turned out to be Dylan Linwood.

  Distant pieces of the puzzle were slowly starting to come together, but what good did that do her? She couldn’t call Libby. She couldn’t call her parents. She couldn’t call her friends. She couldn’t call the peacekeepers without giving her location away. Clair had escaped from one cage only to find herself caught securely in another.

  “One piece at a time,” she reminded herself. If she could get Zep out of the safe house, that would be a start. At least she wouldn’t be alone in the cage then.

  “Can I call up a map?” she asked “q.”

  “Yes, Clair. I will advise you if you are about to do anything dangerous.”

  There was a public bathroom one block to the north, worth going out of her way for. She didn’t want to arrive anywhere looking like a refugee.

  She slung the pack over her shoulder, threw the empty mug and box into a bin, took one last look around her to make sure Dylan Linwood really wasn’t still following h
er, and set off.

  27

  ONE HOUR LATER, after a lonely walk under stars as crisp and cool as a cosmic chandelier, Clair strode up to the safe house door and waited. She didn’t need to knock. She knew Ray or someone else would be watching.

  The door opened after thirty seconds. Gemma stepped out. The door closed behind her and clicked shut.

  “We didn’t expect to see you again,” Gemma said. Her face was unreadable in the darkness. There was no porch light.

  “I didn’t expect to see you, either.” Clair held the pistol at her side, not hidden but not aimed at anyone either. A bluff like Gemma’s had been. This time, Gemma appeared to be unarmed.

  “You should have told me,” Clair said.

  “About what?”

  “About Dylan Linwood.”

  Gemma looked surprised but unrepentant. “You’ve seen him, then?”

  “He tried to kill me.”

  Gemma nodded and said, “We couldn’t tell you about that. You wouldn’t have believed us.”

  “How long have you known he was a traitor? And how on earth did he survive that explosion?”

  That earned her a long, measuring stare.

  “You’d better come inside. Your boyfriend is making my life a living hell.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” she said again.

  Gemma knocked on the door, a quick rat-a-tat, and it opened. Clair’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness. Ray looked pissed off. Clair didn’t care.

  “I’ll be out of touch for a bit,” Clair told “q.” She squeezed the pistol grip tightly, feeling as though she were leaping off a high dive. Gemma followed her into the house, too close for comfort, but no one tried to search or disarm her. No one said anything. All the menus in her night-darkened lenses were dead.