Twinmaker t-1

by Sean Williams

  The only consolation was the starscape above, which was brighter and more brilliant than any she had ever seen before. There was no moon to diminish the spectacle. Whenever she felt hungry or thirsty or footsore or weary, all she had to do was look up and her problems would disappear for an instant. Then she would be back to remembering that she was walking in an age of near-instantaneous, pollution-free global transport and being chased by murderers who could apparently do the impossible. . . .

  The way became hillier. She and Jesse argued about whether it was better to travel on the ridges, skirt the sides, or follow the dry creek beds they came across. The creeks were safer, but they curved in unpredictable ways and were often clogged with debris.

  “I seriously need to rest,” Clair said, swigging down the last of the water in her bottle. “Can’t we stop for a minute?”

  “No,” he said, taking her free hand and tugging her on. “Not far now.”

  “You said that half an hour ago.”

  “I did. But what does ‘far’ mean? Aren’t all locations the same to you, d-mat girl? All you need is a booth at either end, and you’re practically there.”

  She let go of his hand and went to snark back at him, then recognized his intent for what it was. He was trying to distract her, not insult her.

  A memory came to her from her childhood. She and her parents had been on a day trip somewhere in Central America, wandering around ancient stone pyramids that she could barely remember now. Clair had been young enough to have a favorite toy she didn’t want to be parted from, a bright-red stuffed clown with limp, raglike limbs, called Charlie. She had, however, been old enough to be embarrassed by it, so she had tucked up under her shirt where no one would see it.

  Charlie had slipped free just as she and her mother had headed home, and Clair didn’t notice the loss until the door of the d-mat booth had been sliding shut. She remembered panicking and wriggling free of her mother’s grip to duck through the closing door. She had reached down to pick up Charlie from the sidewalk and clutch him tightly to her chest.

  Then she turned to find the d-mat booth closed and both her parents gone.

  Clair didn’t recall any kind of hysterical fit, not like Allison told it, but she had banged on the doors, begging for her parents’ return. “It takes time,” said an old lady who had noticed her predicament. “You have to let the machines do their work.” But Clair didn’t want to wait. She didn’t want the old lady, either. She wanted her parents back now.

  And of course, they had come back, bursting out of a neighboring booth just soon as they had been able to make the return trip. They had scooped her up and told her that she had been very silly because didn’t she know that they could have just fabbed her a new clown anytime she wanted? And she remembered the complex puzzlement she had felt in that moment—at her parents for not realizing that a new clown couldn’t possibly be the same as her old clown and at herself for not suspecting that this clown was indeed probably one of many and might have been replaced many times without her knowing it.

  That had been the beginning of the end of her love affair with Charlie.

  It was also the first occasion she could recall thinking about the time it took to d-mat from one point to another. In the booth, time didn’t seem to pass at all.

  Never had she stopped to wonder about the spaces involved either. They were irrelevant.

  Not irrelevant anymore, unfortunately.

  “Screw geography,” she said. “Carry me.”

  “Not for all the tea in China.”

  “Whatever that means.”

  “China is where tea came from before people could fab it anytime they wanted.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” she said. “Why only grow it in one spot? You’d have to freight it everywhere, which must’ve taken ages without d-mat.”

  “It did.”

  “So why not drink something else that grows near where you live?”

  “Beats me,” he said. “I guess that’s what led to the Water Wars.”

  They tramped on for another minute, skirting the edge of a tiny, dried-up pond. The rib cage of some large animal, a horse or a cow, stuck out of the caked soil like bony fingers cupping long-lost treasure.

  “So much for never doing anything,” Jesse said.

  “What?”

  “You know: the story of my life. Sitting around thinking. Well, check me out. It’s like being in a book! This is the part where the heroes are slogging on through the dark, refusing to give up because there’s something horrible coming up behind them.”

  Clair didn’t feel anywhere near as excited about this as Jesse sounded.

  “You like books?” she said.

  “Love them.” He glanced at her, the whites of his eyes bright in the starlight. “Heart of Darkness, The Lord of the Rings, Master and Commander, On the Road . . . I’ve got a collection of old print editions at home. Dad gives me one every birthday.”

  He caught himself.

  “I mean, I had them at home. He used to give me one.”

  She thought of the old books she hung out with in the library at school.

  “Screw adventures, too,” she said, “and screw slogging through the dark. I’d give anything to be home in bed, plugged back into the Air and reading something good.”

  “Agreed, with all my heart.”

  This time the silence felt even deeper.

  “Actually,” he said, “what I really want is Dad back.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you probably feel the same way about Zep.”

  Her heart hitched a little. “He would’ve carried me . . . if Libby hadn’t been around.”

  “Can I ask you about him?”

  “I . . . guess.”

  “You told Aunt Arabelle that Zep was just a friend, but he looked like more than that to me.”

  She didn’t answer immediately.

  “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I’m just trying to pass the time.”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “If you want to know, I’ll tell you.”

  “Only . . . I thought he was going out with Libby.”

  “He was. But he liked me, too.”

  “Oh. Did you like him back?”

  “Don’t say it like that. I never wanted to. I just did, and there was no way to stop it. I wanted to stop it, of course, but . . .”

  “I get it,” he said. “It was complicated.”

  She nodded, unsure whether it would be easier or harder now that everything that had seemed so momentous and world-shattering just hours ago was ended forever. The certainty of Zep’s death was undeniable, but sometimes it still felt surreal, like something that had happened to someone else. She wondered how long it would take to fully sink in.

  “What about you?” she asked Jesse in turn. Anything to change the subject. “What’s your love life like?”

  He might have blushed. It was hard to tell by starlight.

  “Love life? What love life? I can’t date at school because everyone thinks I’m a freak. I could hook up with someone via the Air, but what would be the point when everyone lives so far apart? And the girls I’ve met through WHOLE have been . . . predictably intense. So nothing at all, I’m afraid.”

  “You wouldn’t use d-mat even to get lucky?” she asked.

  “Not even. We Stainer boys are made of sterner stuff than that.”

  “No point dreaming of what you can’t have, I guess.”

  “Exactly.”

  She wished she had told herself that when Zep had been nothing but a dream, a safe dream because he was unavailable. She’d had crushes before that had never gone anywhere. If Zep had stayed one of them, none of this would have happened. She would be asleep in her bed in Maine, not staring down in the vain hope of telling the difference between rocks and pitfalls in a night so dark she could hardly see her feet. . . .

  “Do you hear that, Clair?”

  Jesse had stopped in his tracks, and she stumbled
to a halt next to him.

  “A bike or something,” she said, thinking of their ruthless pursuers. “Coming this way.”

  “Is it Q?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s not take any chances.”

  They took shelter behind a boulder overlooking a low crack in the ground. There they waited, Clair’s palm sweaty on the pistol grip. Would the vehicle go past them or stop? Would it be Q or “Dylan Linwood”? Had their long flight been for nothing?

  The engine noise grew steadily louder and then ebbed into a low whirr. Stones ground under wheels as the vehicle came to a halt on the other side of the boulder.

  “Clair?” came a loud voice out of the darkness. “I know you’re nearby, but I can’t locate you precisely. Sorry it’s taken me so long. This whole area is under intense scrutiny. I’m lucky I could get in at all.”

  Clair sagged with relief.

  “It’s okay,” she told Jesse. “That’s our ride.”

  “That’s Q? Really?”

  “I know she sounds young, but let’s not look a gift horse in the mouth.” She poked him lightly on the shoulder. “You know what that phrase means, don’t you?”

  She climbed out of the crack in the ground before he could answer. Twenty yards away sat a squat moon buggy of a thing, little more than a frame with four balloon wheels capable of collapsing to fit inside a d-mat booth, then expanding out to seat two. It had a sprinkling of antennae protruding from the rear bench and a small dish pointing skyward. A pair of tiny cameras mounted at the front swiveled to face her, locked on.

  “Don’t reply via the Air,” said Q through a speaker somewhere on the buggy. “I have established a secure maser link with the quadricycle. No one can detect it unless they’re standing directly in the beam.”

  “You can hear me like this?” Clair asked, speaking aloud as she came closer.

  “Perfectly well, Clair.”

  “I could kiss you, Q. Hell, I could kiss this thing, whatever it is.”

  Jesse approached more warily. “Hello?”

  “Jesse Linwood, I presume,” said Q with a new formality. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “Same, I guess.”

  Clair took off her backpack and helmet and threw them into the space between the seats, then climbed gratefully aboard. The flimsy-looking sides barely flexed under her weight.

  “I don’t suppose you thought to pack any supplies.”

  “It didn’t occur to me, Clair. I’m sorry. I’ll take you past the booth in Copperopolis, if you like.”

  “All right,” she said. “But let’s not hang there too long. We’re running behind as it is. Jesse? Are you getting on or what?”

  He was examining the underside of the frame. “Yes. It’s just . . . a nice design. Reminds me of one of the old Mars rovers. Good choice, Q.”

  “Thanks, Jesse.” The voice over the speakers relaxed slightly. “Would you like to drive?”

  “If that’s okay with you, sure!”

  A hatch opened in front of the vacant seat, and a delicate-looking steering system unfolded. It looked like a retro game controller, but with fewer buttons.

  “Cool,” he said, finally getting into his seat. He tested the joystick. Beneath them, the buggy stirred. He nodded, pushed the joystick forward. The wheels spun, kicking up gravel. Clair let herself be pressed back into the seat, hoping the long, awkward night would soon be over.

  37

  THE RIDE WAS too bouncy to be called truly comfortable, although it seemed so after the long walk. Clair offered a weak cheer when they reached the empty roads of Copperopolis. The map in her lenses checked off a series of oddly named streets as they flew by: Knolls Drive, Sugar Loaf Court, Little John Road, Charmstone Way. They sounded like something from a fairy tale, but there was nothing remotely fairyish about the arid, abandoned lots. She imagined dark eyes staring at her through all the broken windows.

  According to the map, decoy airships were still drifting all over the state of California. Three were stationary. One of those—the real deal—was at the Maury Rasmussen airfield. She took hope from the fact that it had arrived safely. Furthermore, it hadn’t left yet. She and Jesse were still in the race.

  “Are we going to make it?” he asked.

  “Don’t jinx us by asking that,” she said, feeling the steady churn in her gut as she thought about what might happen if they didn’t. “What comes after we get away in the airship? Have you thought about that?”

  He shook his head. “Have you?”

  “Well, I’m not joining WHOLE and becoming a social outcast . . . uh, no offense.”

  “None taken.”

  “I just want to save Libby somehow, which means finding a way to reverse the effects of Improvement.”

  “In four days?”

  “Why not? Someone can do this: we just need to find out what they know. It’ll be easier working backward, surely.”

  “I can help with that,” said Q brightly.

  “It strikes me,” said Jesse, “that there’s only one group that stands to look bad if word of this gets out. That’s VIA. I mean, say Improvement’s really real, and duping is real too, then that proves what a shitty job they’re doing, keeping people like you safe. But how does it work if VIA’s as bad as Gemma thinks?”

  “They can’t be,” Clair said. “If it was VIA, there wouldn’t be death squads chasing after us now. I’d have been erased the first time I used d-mat, and the rest of you would be crushed under a million peacekeepers. VIA is too powerful. So it has to be someone working around VIA . . . and you’re right: VIA won’t like that at all. All I’d have to do is get them on our side, and I’d have the biggest ally imaginable. But how would I do that? Who would I talk to?”

  “You could start at the top,” Jesse said. Clair couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

  “Q, who’s in charge of VIA?” she asked.

  “Head of operations is Ant Wallace,” came the instant reply. “His office is in New York City.”

  Images flickered across Clair’s lenses as Q supplemented her words with stills and text. Anthony Reinhold Wallace was a man of medium height and medium build, with a pleasantly symmetrical face and lightly graying hair. VIA itself occupied One Penn Plaza, a skyscraper on the west shoreline of the main island of Manhattan.

  Clair felt a giddy feeling, as though she were back on the roof of the Phoenix Observatory, staring into an abyss. She thought That’s a really long way to go for the first time in her life. And if she couldn’t get the dupes off her tail, they would be behind her every step.

  “There must be an easier way,” she said.

  “You’ll think of something,” Jesse said with a confidence she knew wasn’t earned.

  “Or Turner Goldsmith will, if we make it to the airship . . .”

  “Don’t jinx us, Clair, remember?”

  Jesse took the corners fast, lifting two wheels off the ground. Clair clung to the sides of her seat, liking this mode of travel even less than the electrobike, but at least she wasn’t walking anymore. On Copperopolis’s main street, next to an old saloon that looked like something out of the Wild West, they found the town’s only d-mat booth. Its door slid open as they approached, revealing a box much like the one Q had sent Clair in Manteca. This one was addressed to Isabella Charlotte Tremblay but opened at her palm print. Inside were sandwiches, some water, and a fully loaded pistol that was superficially identical to the one in her pocket. Clair swapped sidearms so the one she had couldn’t be matched against the bullets fired in Manteca, sealed the box, put it in the booth for recycling, and returned to the buggy.

  Today is Friday, she thought. I’m supposed to be doing chores and then hanging out with Ronnie, Tash, and Libby. How did I end up here?

  “Do you think there’s a toilet?” she asked.

  “Maybe round the back,” Jesse said, taking a sandwich, staring at it skeptically, and fishing out the meaty bits he wouldn’t eat whether they were fabbed or not.

  “
Save the meat for me. I’m starving.”

  The old saloon had a rear light that flicked on as she came around the corner. It revealed a chemical toilet with a door that opened onto the empty landscape. She used it as quickly as she could, holding her breath from the smell creeping up the pipe.

  Coming back around the saloon, she heard voices.

  “Never trusted that thing,” someone was saying in a low, querulous voice. “They put it here in exchange for free power. I know it comes from the satellites now, but you still need wires to get it around on the ground, they said. Either that or move. It’s for emergencies, but who’s going to have an emergency out here? The last group to come by were balloonists. If they have an emergency, they’re dead. Am I right?”

  “You’re right,” said Jesse with a small laugh. “How long have you lived here?”

  “Since I was a boy, and I ain’t going anywhere now.”

  “No one’s making you. We’re just passing through.”

  Jesse didn’t sound overly worried, so Clair walked around the corner and into view. Jesse was leaning against the buggy, the last of his sandwich in one hand, eyes hidden in the shade of his shaggy bangs. In front of him, facing away from the saloon and lit by a single globe under the veranda roof that hadn’t been on before, was an old guy, weathered and faded by the sun. His eyes were so gray they were almost transparent. He looked about a hundred. Clair thought he was probably no more than seventy, just old enough to remember life before the powersats.

  She cleared her throat. He turned.

  “Ah, here’s the pretty one,” he said with a yellow-toothed smile, extending his hand. “Jayden Beaumont, proprietor of the Old Corner Saloon.”

  “Clair Hill. Sorry if we woke you, Mr. Beaumont.”

  His grip was strong. “Call me Jay. And no need to apologize. I don’t sleep so well these days. Tumbleweeds in Telegraph City, I hear them.”

  He let her go and she stepped away. He smelled stale, like the survivor of a fifty-year bender, and was wearing a thin silk dressing gown and slippers that had seen better decades. Bony, angular knees poked at the inside of the gown. She couldn’t tell if he was wearing anything under there. Didn’t want to know.