Footfalls hurried to the other side of the door.
The booth behind her was still closed, processing the data that comprised the Rapid Response team.
The locks clicked and clunked on the door to her apartment. He was coming out to get her. But who had told him? How had he known?
Run, Clair, run! said the childlike voice in her ear.
23
THERE WAS A door marked FIRE at the end of the corridor. Clair burst through it, onto a steep flight of concrete stairs that wound down to the ground floor below.
Clair! Hold it!
She definitely knew that voice from somewhere but didnt stop to see who it belonged to. She ran down the stairs three at a time.
Whats happening, Clair? asked the peacekeeper.
You told him, she said. You told him where I was!
Told who, Clair? Im afraid I dont know
She closed the window. The door leading into the stairwell burst open above her, sending echoes flying like startled birds all around her. The man was close. She ran flattened against the wall as best she could, minimizing the likelihood that he would see her.
She ducked through the next exit and closed it quietly behind her. Feet thundered down the stairs. She ran for that floors booth, threw herself inside, said the first address that came to her.
Woodward and Main, Manteca.
The stairwell entrance burst open just as the booth door started sliding shut. Framed at the other end of the hallway was the man chasing her. He didnt look like an assassin. He was scruffily dressed, with gray hair, a bruise on his forehead, and a glaring, blood-filled eye. He was Dylan Linwood, and he was holding a sleek black pistol in his right hand.
Clair couldnt move. The end of the barrel was like a black hole, growing larger with every degree it rose. Behind it, Jesses father aimed the pistol with both hands and squeezed the trigger twice.
Two bullets slammed in quick succession into the closed booth door, bang-bang.
Clair dropped to the floor with her hands over her ears.
sssssss
She glanced up fearfully. The mirrored inside of the door showed no damage. It wasnt even warped.
pop
Her legs had no strength beneath her. She wasnt sure she could stand. But she was instantly on her feet, thinking: Manteca? What the hell am I doing? Crazy to go back to where shed come from, where Big-Ears might still be looking for her.
A stunned part of her was thinking: Dylan Linwood?
The door hissed open. She ignored the people waiting and leaned out, searching for any familiar faces.
Isnt he dead?
Outside the booth there was no sign of anyone she recognized. No Big-Ears. Zep hadnt responded to her bump. Maybe he was in transit.
Drones were whining overhead. She breathed out through pursed lips and moved to step from the booth. Then Dylan Linwood burst into view three doors along, and she threw herself back inside.
Very much alive, apparently. And using d-mat!
People complained in the queue outside her booth.
Clair? I know youre here, Dylan Linwood called.
Take me to the Isle of Shanghai, Clair said in a quiet, fast voice. If Zep had gotten away, he might have gone to his dorm. Ju Long Hostel.
You cant run, Clair, and you can forget about calling for help.
He walked into view. They stared at each other for a split second. His pistol was hidden from the drones as Gemmas had been. He moved toward her just as the door closed.
Shi! she heard him say.
sssssss-pop
She came out of the booth at a run, not sticking around to see if he had followed her a second time. Hurrying toward Zeps dorm, she opened the qqqqq patch in her infield.
You were right, she said. How did you know?
I told you, Clair, said the voice. There is very little I cannot access.
Was it you who rang the safe house?
Yes. The landline was the only way I could contact you while you were inside the Faraday shield. Unfortunately, you had left by the time I got through.
Why are you doing this? Whats in it for you?
I just want to help you, Clair. I am on your side. You can trust me.
Clair wasnt certain about that. Who are you?
Does that matter? Cant I just help you?
Clair screwed up her face. It was like she was talking to a kid of some kinda hacker prodigy sticking her nose in for kicks. There were isolationist communities that lived in a state of passive-aggressive antagonism with the world around them, governed by peculiar notions of society and morality. She could accept that one of their offspring might have developed an unhealthy curiosity regarding Improvement and its victims. Was that what was going on?
If it was, would Clair be crazy not to take advantage of it?
Zep wasnt in his room, but there was another huddle of young men in the common area. They all looked the same to her. One of them called something, a slightly more verbal version of a wolf whistle. This time she didnt ignore it.
Theres a guy following me, trying to hurt me, she said. A dead man. Please dont let him come through here, will you?
The huddle broke apart, puzzled and territorial in equal measures, as Dylan Linwood burst into the common area behind her.
Thats him! she cried. Stop him!
The huddle swarmed forward.
She grabbed the nearest guy before he could run into the fray.
Is there a back way out of here?
He nodded and hurried her to the far side of the room. A single shot sounded behind them, and her guide turned back to see what was going on. She kept running, hoping it was just a warning round, that none of Zeps friends had been hurt.
She took the stairs all the way to the bottom and burst out into the busy Shanghai street. It was full of pedestrians and bicyclists, conveniently rowdy with music and calling voices. She pushed her way through the crowd, putting as much distance and confusion between her and the hostel as she could. There was a d-mat station at the next junction. She headed for it.
As she fled, she sent a call request to q, who answered immediately.
Okay, Clair said. Im really out of options here. If you can tell me why Dylan Linwood is back from the dead and what I have to do to shake him, then maybe Ill start trusting you.
I cannot help you with the first part at the moment, but I might be able to do something about the second. The first thing to do is find out exactly how he is tracking you. He is clearly not accessing friend privileges, since he is not your friend. I doubt he hacked into VIA or the peacekeepers. He could be monitoring surveillance cameras and EITS data like the peacekeepers do
I dont need a list. I just need to get rid of him!
Take the next left, said the voice.
But the station
It is too obvious. And you do not have enough time. He is behind you.
Clair glanced over her shoulder. There he was, shouldering his way through the crowd with a determined expression on his face. Again she felt a moment of fundamental wrongness about his existence. Youre dead, she wanted to yell at him. Lie down and leave me alone!
Next left it is, she said, renewing her efforts to press through the throng and into a crowded market stall.
Go straight ahead. Take the second lane on your right.
Clair did as she was told, the skin between her shoulder blades burning with an ancient sense of danger. Dylan Linwood could see her, but at least he couldnt fire at her, not without risking hitting someone else. That helped a bit.
She ducked into the lane when she reached it and snatched a brightly colored shawl from a stand. She slipped it over her head and ducked lower, easing through the crowd as quickly as she could.
Is he far behind me? She didnt dare look.
Keep going straight. I will tell you when to deviate from this course.
But youll warn me if hes about to catch me, wont you?
Yes, Clair. I will not let that happen.
She squeezed past a woman pushing a small child in a stroller. Have you worked out how to stop him from tracking me yet?
I believe I have. Do you still have your Improvement note on your person?
24
CLAIRS MIND WENT blank for a moment, then filled with alarm and self-recrimination. Of course she still had the note on her. Shed slipped it under the elastic of her underpants the previous night, and she was wearing the same underpants now.
Yes, I do, she said, slipping her index finger around her waist until she found the note. It was creased and softened by sweat, a piece of paper made far from ordinary by the words written on ita signal to the system, as Jesse had called it. Could his father be using that very signal to track her now?
What do I do? Tear it up?
No. Turn left here.
Clair ducked into another lane lined with market stalls. At the far end was an exit. Next to the exit was the sign for a d-mat station, and on seeing it she understood.
A wild-goose chase, she said. That would work, I guess.
Not this jump, said the voice, but the next one. Clair, do you trust me?
Uh. That was a difficult question. How far, exactly?
I can program the booth for you, if you will permit me. That will save time.
Cant I do it myself?
You can. But in that case I must ask you to give me the list of destinations in advance so I can prepare the way. And you will need to speak without hesitation.
How many?
Four should be sufficient.
The impossibility of her situation made it hard to think of anything other than putting one foot in front of the other. The resort in Switzerland shed stayed in with her parents as a kid. The dig in South America she and her friends had visited last year as part of their Lost Civilizations elective.
Somewhere random? That would be good, she thought. And somewhere shed never been before.
Not Omsk. Cape Town. And the Tuvalu memorial in the Pacific.
Perhaps we should we send it to the moon, she said. Thatd really throw him off.
All lunar installations are restricted while the OneMoon embargo is in place.
Clair had been joking, never dreaming that accessing somewhere off-Earth was remotely an option.
She forced her way through a tangle of people at the markets exit, into the relatively free space of the street outside. She ran the last dozen yards to the station.
Take the note with you to your first destination, said the voice. You will dispose of it before the transmission after that.
Clair shouldered her way into the nearest booth and cried out the Swiss address. Dylan Linwood burst out of the market and moved sharklike in her wake. Not firing, not shouting, just moving quickly, confident she wouldnt get away from him. The gun wasnt visible.
That it would reappear when she was caught, she had no doubt.
The door shut. Her ears popped. The door opened.
It was cold and dark in Switzerland. Heavy snow was falling outside the station. She wrapped the shawl tightly around her neck and shoulders and hugged herself.
Put the note in the next booth over and use your second destination, the voice told her.
She did so, giving the booth the South American address and requesting an unaccompanied freight transfer. She ducked out before the door shut on her and went to the third booth.
The doors closed and opened again a moment later in Cape Town, her third destination. She stepped out of the booth and warily looked around. It was nighttime there too, but the air was warm and humid. The station was deserted. A sign in her lenses welcomed her to the Devils Peak lookout. Below her was the university, on the edge of a moon-shaped bay. Across the bay was Ndabeni, lit up by a ghostly spear of light fired at a slant from a powersat above the equator.
Clair unwound the shawl and threw it away.
Why are you doing this for me?
I have been following Improvement, Clair. That is what I do. Now I am involved, and it is very exciting.
Is this some kind of game to you?
No, Clair. I am not playing a game. I am very serious. I want to be your friend. Like Libby. Like the two of you are friends.
You cant just become my friend. Friendship has to be earned. And besides, who knows what Libby thinks of me now . . . ?
Her profile declares your relationship to be unchanged.
Clair checked her lenses. Libbys most recent caption simply said Im beautiful! with a rapid-fire sequence of womens faces, all of them blondes like her. She was in the Manhattan Isles, not at school, but she didnt say why.
I cant find Zep, Clair said when she looked for him.
He cannot be located.
What does that mean? Her heart skipped a beat. Hes dead?
No. He is disconnected from the Air.
Recaptured, she thought. Back inside WHOLEs Faraday cage. Every instinct in her railed at the thought.
I have to go back for him, she said. I cant just leave him behind.
Before q could offer a reply, the booth behind her came to life. Its door closed, and the machines within busily whirred, processing new data and spinning pure energy into matter. Someone was coming.
Is that . . . him?
Yes.
But it cant 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, didnt 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 shoeseverything.
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
25
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 couldnt 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 couldnt discover anything about them by reading their public profiles, just as she couldnt access the platforms multimedia options, metadata tags, or even Muzak. She couldnt talk to her parents, her friends, anyone. She couldnt 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.
Dont do it, she told herself. Dont give in and reconnect. You can stay offline for a few minutes, if thats what it takes to shake him. Give it ten, and then move on, reconnect somewhere else. Maybe fifteen. See what happens. It wont 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 wasnt 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 wouldnt have kissed Zep, and the wedge of Improvement wouldnt 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 cant help yourself, can you? You just wont leave well enough alone.
Libbys accusations stung because there was some truth to them. Clair wasnt naturally gregarious and might have languished in bookish obscurity had it not been for Libbys 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 Zepand Clair had wondered if that lay at the heart of Clairs 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 wasnt everything, and it had always been clear that Clair had had an advantage over Libby in other areas. A teacher had once supported her mothers 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 Clairs mom had started using her as a goad for working harder at piano lessons. For all Clairs fantasies of growing up to be like heror even just Libby, funny and outgoing and loved by everyoneClair knew she wasnt 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 principals 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 thingthis WHOLE thingwasnt 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?
Thats 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. Shes gone. Im sorry, dear. Are you all right?
I . . . thanks.
She had to move on or Dylan Linwood would find her. Whatever he wanted, she wasnt 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 hadnt 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 wasnt 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 cant be happening. . . .
Dont say or do anything, said a now-familiar childish voice through the tinny headset.
Whats going on? she cried. What have you done to me?
I am changing your public identity so someone searching for Clair Hill wont 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 hadnt 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 wouldnt 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.
Clairs reflection looked bloodless and desperatethe 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 couldnt afford to let herself. It wasnt 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 elsenot physically but semantically, so anyone searching for you through the Air wouldnt see you. Now Ive built you a mask to hide behind. All your identifiers are temporarily scrambledname, address, preferences, historyeverything 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 cant 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 theyre 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 theres 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 wasnt 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 dont hurt anyone, the voice said, I can do a lot of things.
I dont know what you mean by parity. Doesnt 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. Thats 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 shouldnt be duplicated or altered like hats or chocolate bars can be. The trick I used was to change a persons tag from alive to material so I could alter your patternyour lenses and your ear-rings, specificallyand 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, its 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 shouldnt be allowed to, and neither should young kids trying to run away from home. If the database doesnt 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 doesnt 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 didnt.