She fell onto the bed and ground the heels of her hands into her eyes, willing herself not to cry. She wanted to call back right away and apologizebut what for, exactly? For having a connection with Zep that didnt include Libby? For not believing in Improvement? For trying to help?
She wasnt going to apologize, she promised herself. And it wasnt about Zep or anything obviously superficial and in the moment. If it had really been about a single kiss, maybe Clair would have let Libby have her time in the crisis spotlight, safe in the knowledge that it would blow over soon enough. She could live with that for the sake of eventual peace. It was what Libby had said about being Clairs project that stung the most. Like it wasnt just as often the other way aroundLibby trying to drag her off to things Clair wasnt interested in, safe in the knowledge that Clair would either enjoy it or make things work out when they didnt. That was why they worked as friends when they were so patently different from each otherand now Libby didnt want it to be that way anymore. She wanted to break the central dynamic of their friendship, which was that it went both ways.
Clair could hear her own breathing echoing back to her from the confines of her room. It was fast, as though she had been running.
The story Clair had told Jesse earlier that day came back to her now. Food poisoning thanks to bad chicken had kept her out of school for a week. Her friends had sent her get-well messages through the Air, but that hadnt been enough for Libby. She had brought around a pot of congee that she said was an old family recipefabbed a generation ago and perfect, Libby said, for settling a bad stomach. It had made Clair feel better, but not just because of the rice broth. Because Libby had known that Clair felt in need of more comfort than the Air could provide, and Libby had been there for her. She had felt, in that moment, that Libby would always be there, whenever Clair needed her.
It goes both ways, she thought again.
Libby might be acting hatefully toward her at the moment, but that didnt mean they werent still friends. What if she was still looking out for Clair now? What if Libby, in her own way, genuinely thought she was giving Clair good advice?
13
CLAIR SAT UP and flicked her bedside lamp on. The light made her blink, but it echoed the sudden feeling in her mind that she was seeing the situation in an entirely new and important light.
Libby was one hundred percent certain that Improvement worked.
Dylan Linwood was one hundred and ten percent certain that anything to do with d-mat was evil and that Improvement was just one example of the system causing errors.
Both were asking Clair to believe them.
Who would Clair rather was right? Whom did she trust?
She didnt even have to think about it. Not the madman who built bikes for a living and ate plants he grew in the dirt. Not the conspiracy nut who wished there was something seriously wrong with Libby so he could use her for evidence against the system he hated. Not the insecure father who put Clair down in order to look tall in front of his son.
There were two possibilities: Improvement was all in Libbys mind, or the global network was broken.
Clair would rather discover that all of VIAs safeguards were useless than that a man like Dylan Linwood was right.
It was the middle of the night in Maine, but that didnt matter. It was day for half the world. Clair got out of bed, got dressed in yesterdays clothes, and moved quietly through the apartment to the dining room, where she fabbed notepaper and a pen. Gone out, she wrote for her mothers benefit. Will call. That way there was no chance of being talked out of it, should a bump wake Allison up.
On a second piece of paper she wrote, My nose is too big. Like, HUGE. Help! Then she added the code words and folded the piece of paper in four and slipped it under the elastic of her underwear, so it pressed against her hip.
She was going to make things right between her and Libby by proving Dylan Linwood wrong.
Clair left the apartment and headed up the hall. Clair had never had d-mat at home. She counted herself lucky that the apartment building she lived in had a booth on each level, opposite the fire stairs that led down to the sidewalks, which no one ever used. That meant she only had to worry about the weather at the other end of her journey.
For the immediate future, there would be no other end to worry about.
Lucky Jump, Clair told the booth as the door slid shut.
The lights flared. The air thinned.
sssssss-pop
Her face in the mirror was unchanged. Of course.
She didnt wait for the door to open.
Again.
sssssss-pop
Again.
sssssss-pop
Again . . . no, wait.
The booth was still and silent around her. An infinite number of Clair Hills stood motionlessly, wondering if her haste was a little ill-considered.
There were in fact three possibilities she needed to think about. One, Improvement was Libbys fantasy; two, Improvement was a global hack; or three, Improvement happened in a private network.
Everything everyone had told Clair constantly reinforced the certainty that Improvement, if it worked, couldnt operate in the public domain. VIAs network was absolutely secure. She could jump the normal way a million times without changing the polish on her toenails one iota.
So for Improvement to work, it had to be as Clairs mother had said: it had to be by the third option. That meant the note would have to operate as a signal to someone watching, someone who would reroute her from the public network to another place entirelykidnapping her, in effect, if only temporarily, before returning her to the public network. That could happen to her on the very next trip or on the hundredth. Maybe it had already happened without her noticing.
Her lenses instantly put that fear to rest. She was on Rhodes, not far from the rebuilt Colossus.
Woodward and Main, Manteca, she instructed the booth.
sssssss-pop
She checked her coordinates, as she should have been doing from the start. No deviation.
Now back home, please.
sssssss-pop
She checked again. No deviation.
She repeated the cycle three times without deviation.
That would do it, she decided. Bouncing back and forth between the two, checking every time, would ensure she was only ever where she expected to be.
And if she did deviate, she would know there was something to Improvementthe meme, if not the actual process of changing someone into a better person. Proof wouldnt necessarily require any physical changes to her nose. If she wasnt at either the Manteca station or Maine, she would know that someone had read her note and diverted herproving Libby right and Dylan Linwood wrong. The existence of a private network meant only that VIA had made a mistake, not that the entire system was at fault.
Or nothing at all would happen, in which case she would know that Libby was going through a bad patch that time, honesty, and a lot of patience would heal.
The eleven jumps had passed quickly, but just shy of half an hour had passed in the real world. Another eighty jumps to go before she equaled Libbys marathon effort. As a young girl, Clair had imagined what it would be like to spend all day jumping. If her parents had let her use a booth without them, she would have danced across the world as though wearing twelve-league boots. Once she had her solo license, the impulse had worn off. Transit lag was a pain. It made her feel tired in advance just thinking about it.
Squatting with her back against the mirrored wall, she instructed the booth to return her to Manteca. Some people talked about losing their train of thought when they jumped, seeing wild flashes of color or even experiencing vivid microdreams. She, however, felt nothing as the machines cycled around her, sucking up enough power to run an old-time country for a year.
Ten more cycles, which made over thirty jumps. No deviations, no change. Clair was getting bored. Using d-mat never really felt like going anywhere, but at least there was a change of scenery to look forward to. This was worse than running in circles. This was just an endless cycling of air in a human-sized vacuum flask. She and her reflections went back and forth, back and forth, with only the Air for company, and that was poor fodder.
Libby had cut Clairs close-friend privileges, so Clair couldnt tell where she was. Ronnie and Tash were asleep. Zep wasnt an option. No one else knew what was going on except Jesse, and he was a total dead end.
She thought about leaving Ronnie and Tash a message: If you never hear from me again, youll know Ive turned into a turnip or something. But this was between her and Libby; it wasnt for anyone else to know about. And it certainly wasnt a joke.
Ten more cycles and her ears were starting to hurt. After her fortieth jump, her right eardrum didnt unpop, so she spent an awkward ten minutes walking around the booth in Manteca, waiting for her sinuses to clear. A sharp pain shot through that side of her head, and she stood still for a moment, waiting anxiously for it to go away.
It did, along with the blockage in her ear. She performed one more lap of the booth, for luck, and to prepare herself for resuming the tedious confinement within. How long until she decided that her theory about private networks was wrong? Part of her hoped that her nose would change, just to liven things up.
14
SSSSSSS-POP
After her seventieth jump, a new message appeared in her infield. Thinking it might be Ronnie or Tash saying good morning, she opened it without thinking.
It said: Woman, I behold thee, flippant, vain, and full of fancies.
The words hung in bold sans serif over her on the reflecting surfaces of the booth. The message was unsigned, but there was a winking reply patch associated with the text. The address was hidden by some kind of anonymizing protocol. The name was simply a long string of lowercase qs with an ellipsis in the middle, which indicated that the full text exceeded the fields maximum character length.
qqqqq . . . qqqqq
If someone she knew had sent the message, they were going out of their way to keep their identity a secret. But the text resonated with her. It was something she had read recently in school. The lines were from a poem, but they had been misquoted.
Clair could have ignored it and taken the next jump, back to Manteca for what felt like the thousandth time.
Instead she sent a reply. She was bored and restless and wondering if she had done enough to prove that Libby was right yet. What did it hurt to send a few words through the Air?
If youre going to quote Keats, she bumped back, at least do it properly.
Nothing happened for a while, and she began to wonder if it ever would.
Then a new bump appeared from the same address.
I Improved it.
Clair felt gooseflesh rise up on her forearms. She folded her arms tightly across her chest.
There was no way anyone could see her in the booth, but she knew, suddenly, that she was being watched.
Who are you? she sent. What do you want?
The reply came in the form of another misquote.
Your eyes are drunk with beauty your heart will never see.
Clair searched the Air for the source. It was from someone called George W. Russell. She didnt know him from her writing class, but someone remembered himor misremembered him, rather. The original line ran, Our hearts are drunk with a beauty our eyes could never see.
Whatever was going on, Clair decided to fight fire with fire.
No object is so beautiful that, under certain conditions, it will not look ugly, she sent. Thats Oscar Wilde, and I didnt need to twist his words to make my point. Its all about beholding, right, so why does anything need to be changed at all?
Another bump arrived.
That which does not change is not alive. Clair didnt realize it was another quote until the source of the words added, Sturgeon, exactly. The irony is mine.
Clair was determined not to let her uneasiness show, whether she was talking to some random troll who had spotted her movements or a creep connected to Improvement somehow. If he wanted to chat, why not let him? Words couldnt hurt anyone.
Are we going to talk properly, she bumped back, or just sit here all day slinging quotes at each other?
An incoming call patch began to flash.
She took a deep breath. This was it.
Who are you, and what do you want?
But the voice at the other end of the call was a familiar one.
Clair? said Zep. Quit screwing around. I need you.
15
CLAIRS INFIELD SHOWED no return bumps, just Zeps anxious face staring at hers.
What is it? she asked. Whats going on?
Its Libby. You have to get here, fast.
Where are you?
My dorm. Quick, shes leaving.
Im on my way.
Clair hesitated just for a second. If someone was tracking her, this was exactly the wrong time to go anywhere.
But what else could she do?
She told the booth to take her to Zeps and hoped for the best.
He lived in a cheap all-male dorm on the Isle of Shanghai. It was an open community, not sealed off from the outside world like a lot of natural-sports frats. Its gaggle of young men came from widely scattered regions, united only by the willingness to put their bodies through hell in exchange for a shot at fame.
The booth finished its work. Her nose was unchanged. The moment the doors opened, Clair knew she was in the right place.
The street outside was filled with the constant ding-dinging of bicycles in vigorous use, decorated with multicolored flags and ribbons. From every fabber streamed the aroma of spices. Shanghai was not so much a city as an inextricable tangle of numerous cultures and times, with traditions that stretched back centuries before d-mat.
Lines of market stalls stretched into the hazy distance, with hundreds of hawkers competing for the attention of passersby. The trade was in original goodshandmade, hand grown, freshly killed, or wrenched from the seabut convincing customers that something was unique and not built from a fabbers memory could be very difficult. Claims and counterclaims were being made in loud voices. The racket hurt Clairs ears.
She hurried toward Zeps quarters, bumping him to let her know she was on her way. The ground-floor entrance led to an elevator and a flight of stairs. She took the former to the third floor.
Clair, through here, Zep called when its doors opened.
She looked up, saw him waving, beyond a bunch of young men playing a haptic MMORPG in a communal hall. They jumped and tumbled like spastic acrobats, laughing and calling in a patois she didnt understand. Someone whistled at her. She ignored him.
Zeps room was no cleaner than usual. It was small, cluttered with trophies, and filled almost entirely with bed. There was a fabber in one corner. A pile of clothes lay next to it, awaiting recycling. There was an overwhelming scent of him, with a faint hint of familiar perfume around the edges.
Where is she?
Gone. Zep came around behind her and shut the door. Libbys out of control, Clair.
Out of control how?
Like crazy how. She came over last night
I know she did. I spoke to her.
How did she seem to you? If he noticed her accusatory tone, he didnt say anything.
We argued. She knows about us, Im sure of it. Did you tell her?
He shook his head. She didnt say anything to me about it.
Were you going to?
I dont know. I couldnt get a word in. She came out of nowhere. I had no warning at all. He collapsed back onto the bed. It skreeked under his weight. The very second she got here, we had to go out again. She had this terrible headache, she said. I cant get meds from my fabberdoping regulations, you knowso we went to a friend of mine who gave her something really strong, something Id never heard of before. Then she wanted a drink, and it didnt mix so well. I tried to get her to cool down, but she wouldnt listen. She was going on and on about awful stuffthings Id never heard before about her family. If half of it is true, no wonder shes such a mess.
What about her family?
How her grandmother was murdered in a death camp, and she was raped as a child. You must know all about this. Youve been her friend forever.
Clair rubbed at her temple with the ball of her right thumb. She wasnt raped as a child, and both her grandmothers are alive. Ive met them.
So why would she tell me that?
I dont know. Maybe shes trying to get your attention.
Well, its working. But why shed want this kind of attention is beyond me.
Clair sat on the edge of the bed, feeling exhausted and confused. Libby had taken drugs and gone a little wild. Nothing unheard of for a girl in high school, and there were campus counselors trained to deal with things like that.
Did Libby say anything to you about strange messages? Clair asked him.
What kind of messages?
Like someone was watching her, she said, extrapolating from her own experience, judging her, even.
No. Did she tell you about them?
Clair debated with herself for a second, then showed him the bumps she had received.
When I spoke to her yesterday, the first time, Libby mentioned weird messages, Clair said. I used Improvement to prove that I trust her. . . .
He scooched down the bed so he was sitting behind her.
You used Improvement? he asked. Seriously?
Why not? It didnt do anythingnothing I can see, anyway. But now these messages have come, and I dont know what to think.
He touched her shoulder, and she shrugged him off.
Dont.
Im not trying anything, he said, backing away with his hands raised. Honest.
I believe you, but . . . Clair clenched her fists and pressed them into her thighs. She found it hard to think with him so close. If someones bugging her, too, maybe thats helped push her over the edge. On top of what you and I did, I mean. She turned on him. Zep, how could you let her leave like that?
I didnt have a choice. She slipped me one of the painkillers before we went to bed. I was groggy. Still am.
He did look washed-out and pale, a far cry from his usual confident, unstoppable self.
Im going to try calling her, she said. Maybe shell talk to me.
Brace yourself, he said. Its like shes an entirely different person.
Dont say that. Shes just going through a rough patch.
To Clairs amazement, Libby answered immediately.
Im beautiful, Clair. She sounded stoned. Im beautiful.
Of course you areyou always have been, right? Tell me whats going on. Lets talk.
Whats there to talk about? Her voice hardened. He only wants you because youre different.
Libby, listen to me. Clair did her best to ignore the attempt to wound her. I tried Improvement, and it didnt work
Im in heaven, and Im so beautiful, Libby chanted, marshmallow-soft again. Youre not and never will be.
Libby ended the call, and she wouldnt answer when Clair tried again.
What did she say? asked Zep.
She . . . hang on.
A call patch appeared in her infield, its source the string of qs.
Clair turned to face Zep.
Hes back.
Who?
The creep . . . stalker, whatever he is.
What are you going to do? Are you going to talk to him?
Hes the only lead weve got.
She reached out and took Zeps hand. His strong fingers gripped hers as she winked the patch on.
Before she could utter a single word, an unexpected voice spoke to her. It didnt sound like a stalker. It sounded like a child, but that could have been a filter designed to disguise the speakers true identity, Clair supposed.
How do you know Liberty Zeist?
With the voice came a streaming video, not of the person who was talking but of Libby pacing back and forth in an empty marble foyer, biting her fingernails. It looked real-time but didnt have any map data or date stamp. The picture was greenish and grainy. Libby was wearing a clingy jumpsuit that Clair had never seen before. Her white hair was tied back in a severe ponytail that made her look somehow older and younger at the same time. There was no sign of the birthmark. Was that makeup or something real? It had to be makeup, surely.
How do I know Libby? Clair said. Shes my best friend, and Im not going to let you hurt her.
I have not hurt her. She is beautiful.
Yes, she is, and thats the way shes going to stay, buddy.
All things change.
Not if I can help it.
Whats he saying? whispered Zep. I can only hear your side.
Clair shook her head. The voice was still talking.
You say that she is your friend. You are trying to help her. Is that correct?
Of course its correct, she said. Tell me why you sent me those messages.
Change and beauty are the heart of Improvement. I thought you would understand.
Understand what?
It puzzles me that you do not understand. I dont understand you in return.
Did you message Libby as well?
Yes, but she didnt answer as you did.
Is that disappointing? Would you rather Libby had been talkative than silent? Is that how you prefer your . . . your victims?
She was being deliberately provocative, trying to get a rise out of him.
I dont understand what you mean by victims. I have hurt no one.
So you say, pal.
I am merely talking. We are exchanging information and learning from each other. Is that not stimulating for you?
Clair made a disgusted sound that echoed flatly off the dorms walls. She didnt really want to think about what the person she was talking to found stimulating.
If youve hurt Libby in any way at all
I would never hurt her. She is beautiful.
She is, and Im going to do everything I can to make sure shes safe.
Because she is your friend, said the voice in its too-innocent way. If I helped her, would that make me her friend, as you are?
What?
I said: if I helped her, would that make me her friend
I heard what you said. I just . . . I dont believe this. Youre screwing with my head. Is this what you do to people? Is this how you get your kicks? You reel people in with false promises. You find out who they are and toy with them. Maybe you drive some of them out of their minds. Is that whats happened to Libby? Did you get inside her head and have a little fun?
There was silence at the other end for a long time.
Tell me Im wrong, she said.
I do not understand, said the voice. I am not in your head. I do not understand your motivation at all.
Oh . . .
Clair bit down on a frustrated retort. This wasnt helping.
Clair? said Zep, squeezing her hand. Whats going on?
She shook her head. There was only silence on the other end of the line. No breathing, even. It was almost as though there was no one there at all.
Hello?
Hello, Clair Hill, said the voice. It is nice to meet you.
That was the first time her name had been used. It frightened and alarmed her. Of course the caller knew who she wasotherwise they wouldnt be talkingbut to hear her name when she didnt know the stalkers in return made her feel vulnerable and exposed.
She ended the chat immediately. The video of Libby closed with it. A new call patch started flashing in her lenses, regular and relentless, like the ticking of an electronic heartbeat.
qqqqq . . . qqqqq
16
CLAIR, ARE YOU all right?
Zeps hand was still gripping hers. She didnt want to let go, but she forced herself to.
Im definitely okay, she said, thinking through a fog of confusion and exhaustion. I used Improvement seventy times, and I feel perfectly fine. Do I look fine to you?
Your usual excellent self.
So Libby being such a mess cant have anything to do with Improvement . . . right?
Maybe she was a mess to start with.
Clair glared at him, and he looked away with a shrug.
What did the stalker say? Did he give you any clues?
Nothing. It was weird. Im not even sure he was a he. . . .
She trailed off because another call patch was coming through, and this time it had an ID. She stared at it, puzzled. Why was Jesse Linwood contacting her now?
Curious, she took the call.
Are you at school? he asked, sounding breathless.
Why?
Its Dad. I hassled him to keep looking into Improvement, and he found something.
What is it?
He wouldnt tell me. Then he left on the electrobike without telling me where he was going.
So he went for a ride. So what?
This just came. Jesse sent her a link to a streaming video. You need to see it.
She followed the link and saw Dylan sitting in the principals office of Manteca New Campus High School.
Always a pleasure, said Principal Gordon, a tall, smartly dressed woman with tightly wound auburn hair. Her nickname was Gordon the Gorgon. There was a sour cast to her lips that expressed anything other than pleasure. What is this regarding?
Its a matter of life and death, Dylan told her. One of your students is already at risk.
Oh no, said Clair, standing. There was only one thing Dylan could be talking about. How long has this been running?
It just started. I called you right away.
Has he mentioned anyone by name?
Not yet, but he might, he said. Maybe I can stop him. Ill come as fast as I can.
All right. She was already on her feet. Im on my way too.
Zep had risen to his feet when she did, and when she went to leave, he pulled her back.
What now? he asked. Where are you going?
Ill tell you on the way, she said, tugging free.
Wait. Ill lock up.
No time!
She was out of his room and running across the dorm, sending him the link as she went. The facts would have to speak for themselves.
Libbys popularity was higher than it had ever been, thanks to the crashlanders. But how long would that last if Dylan used Libbys name? Her closest friends had refused to believe that Improvement was anything other than spam targeting the gullible. Even if it worked, the fact that she had used it would undermine Libbys carefully maintained facade of cool. When Libby learned that Clair had passed on something that she had revealed only to her innermost circle, she was bound to feel embarrassed, betrayed, undermined . . . and in her current state, that might be the straw that broke their friendships back. It would certainly undo all the effort Clair was making to prove to Libby that she trusted her.
A matter of life and death, you say, Mr. Linwood? Principal Gordon was saying in the video. Do explain.
The principals office was furnished in mid-twentieth-century style, with wood paneling, leather armchairs, and a low desk that was pure ornamental ostentation. She had taken the seat farthest from the door, a magisterial perch with a coffee table beside it. Facing her were three less-imposing pieces. Dylan was in the center chair, scruffy but straight-backed in his work clothes. The video was being taken from a position high up on the wall opposite them, where a clock or bookcase concealed a camera. Hacking into its feed and releasing the data into the Air didnt seem beyond Dylans capabilities, based on the little Clair knew about him.