Twinmaker (31 page)

“They’re erased,” Gemma said.

Clair shook her head. “No. Data can neither be created nor destroyed, Q says. If you can’t erase the data, that means those minds are still out there somewhere—and so’s Libby. Her original pattern contains everything she was, right down to the atom. Everything she
is
. All we have to do is find it, and we can put her back the way she was before the brain damage. Before Improvement.”

Gemma was listening, but she was looking deeply skeptical at the same time, and Clair realized that she was talking to the wrong person. To Gemma, minds and bodies were much more than just data, even though people had been zipping around the world for two generations without any apparent loss of
soul
.

Fortunately, Jesse looked interested, and Arcady was listening too.

“Our private net does everything two, three times over,” he put in. “It’s the only way to weed out errors. Our safety net is basically a big memory dump. We zap something and we keep its data in limbo until we’re absolutely certain it’s come out the other side okay. We call this limbo the hangover. Obviously, our net is different from the one VIA monitors, but I’m betting that part of it works the same.”

Clair was nodding. “Yes! The hangover. That has to be where she is. Not deleted, because important stuff like this can’t be destroyed.
Saved.
Brilliant!”

She clinked glasses with Jesse and considered the ramifications of this new understanding.

“That means we need VIA more than ever,” she said. “They’ll naturally have access to their own data. They’ll be able to pull out what’s in their hangover and put Libby back the way she ought to be.”

“How long since she used Improvement?” Gemma asked.

“Four days, now.”

“There might still be time. If she’s lucky.”

“What about Q?” asked Jesse. “Could she break in and get Libby out?”

“Break into VIA?” said Clair. “That’d probably take an army of hackers. Or an actual army.”

It was an interesting question, though. She thought of Q, kicked out of her body and accidentally booting up in deep storage somewhere, now struggling to put her mind back together. If the effects of Improvement could easily be reversed, Q would have simply d-matted herself in Copperopolis or earlier. But creating a new body out of nothing would have entailed causing a parity alarm and breaking one of the AIs, while permanently stealing someone else’s body would make her as bad as the dupes.

Surviving in the Air was a long way from being actually
alive
. Clair didn’t want to consign Libby to the same fate.

But she could guess now why Q had chosen Libby’s pattern in Copperopolis. They were the same, connected by Improvement and the secrets that had destroyed both their lives. . . .

Several places down the table, Turner was also paying close attention.

“Winning the battle isn’t enough,” he said. “The war’s the thing.”

“Exactly,” said Clair. “This isn’t just about rescuing Libby and Q. We have to stop it happening to anyone else. I know we don’t see eye to eye on everything, but surely we all accept this. Right?”

Gemma conceded a nod. Turner didn’t budge.

“We don’t know how many hundreds or thousands of people have used Improvement,” he said. “Are you going to save them all?”

“I think we have to.” Clair hadn’t told anyone about using Improvement herself; that knowledge had died with Zep, and she didn’t think just then was the right time to bring it up. Not if it’d make them think she was no longer herself. “It’s a huge job, which is why we need each other—and we need VIA, too. It’s too big. We can’t do it without their help.”

“She’s right,” said Jesse.

Gemma pulled a sour face. “Even if VIA
would
listen to us, which they won’t, the body we captured went down with the Skylifter.”

“There’ll be others,” Turner said. “You can be sure of that.”

Clair drained her glass and reached for another, trying to quash the thought that the task she was setting herself might be too big. How was she going to save Libby, let alone anyone else, when Libby herself had told her to butt out?

“Go easy,” said Arcady. “This is a special brew, remember?”

The way he said
special
made her wonder what else was in it apart from alcohol. That led her back to the peacekeepers, and she asked what would happen if they came to investigate the crash.

“You mean with our operation here?” said Arcady. “This is all legit, up to a point. Selling untested drugs is illegal, but that happens off the land. Sometimes the PKs bug us anyway, and we’ve installed things like a geothermal sink for when they cap our power or whatever. Really, the only problem we have is from cowboys trying to steal our seeds.”

“So we’re completely safe here?”

“Our booths are private,” said Arcady, “there are no comms in or out, and we have deadly serious automated security systems all around our borders. You’re lucky you didn’t come in that way, let me tell you.”

With a broad grin and grease in his beard, he sang another folk song:

Then someone started playing a tune Clair knew, the first music she had recognized since unplugging from her libraries in the Air. It wasn’t one of her favorites, and the pianist was no Tilly Kozlova, but despite her misgivings, Clair was caught up in it like a spark in an updraft. Not everything was gloom and doom and threats and danger. She drank another glass of cider as a toast to that sentiment.

Someone else gave Jesse a hat and he tucked his hair up out of sight. He had a forehead! She could see his eyes! He was good-looking when his hair wasn’t in the way. His eyes were green, which Clair hadn’t noticed before.

Instead of laughing along with him, Clair felt a sudden, irrational urge to weep, and she knew then that it was time to call it a night. So much had happened. She could barely contain her emotions, let alone control them.

She eased away from the others and explained to Arcady what she wanted—a bed, a cushion, a quiet corner, anything.

“Of course. This way.”

He took her to a separate wing of the Farmhouse, where rows of bunks filled a long, segregated dormitory. Several of them were occupied. Under the distant tinkling of the piano, she could hear the light snores of women.

Beds had been set aside for her and Gemma. Clair slipped out of her sneakers and overalls and fell onto the nearest, retaining barely enough energy to wish Arcady good night and to roll herself into the blanket. He brushed the hair back from her forehead like her mother used to and left her to sleep. She didn’t hear the door close behind him.

CLAIR DREAMED STRANGELY, intensely, but only in fits and starts, as though she was neither properly asleep nor properly awake. Everything was in fragments, like a jigsaw puzzle or a broken vase. The pieces were jostling for connection but something was getting in the way.

She woke with a dry mouth, a blocked nose, and a raging headache. It was very dark, and she could barely see a thing. All she could hear was the breathing of the sleepers around her and a faint whine of wind through the thick timber walls. Her bladder was full. She knew she wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep until she did something about that last detail.

She sat up, stayed still for a moment with both hands holding her skull, then eased out of the narrow cot, dressed in her shirt and underwear. Orienting herself was difficult; she hadn’t really been paying attention when Arcady had brought her to bed. She made out Gemma sleeping in the bed opposite. Her eyes possessed a crooked cast even in repose.

Sufficient light spilled in from the corridor to guide her to the door. Clair tiptoed on bare feet outside, looking for familiar landmarks. If she could find the main hall, she was sure she could locate the toilets from there.

The corridor ended in a T junction. She stopped for a moment, dancing from foot to foot, trying to decide which way to go.

A floorboard creaked to her right.
Footsteps.
Remembering Arcady’s veiled warning, she feared interrupting sentries on their rounds and being mistaken for a spy. She was the outsider, after all.

Clair shrank back into the shadows and waited for whoever it was to go by. Her legs were cold. She tried not to shiver.

A woman stepped into the T junction, slight and dressed in black. Clair didn’t recognize her until she glanced over her shoulder and her face came into the pale moonlight. It was the woman with the mismatched eyes, Clair thought, then remembered her name.
Jamila.

She saw Clair in the shadows and started.

“Sorry,” said Clair. “It’s just me.”

“Clair?” Jamila said as though struggling to remember her name in turn.

“Yes, it’s me.” Clair was relieved to learn that at least one other person had survived the crash of the airship. “I thought the search had stopped. You must have come down right on the edge of the farm.”

She nodded. “I’m looking for Turner.”

“Well, I’m looking for the toilet, so let’s help each other out.”

“All right.”

Clair came out to join her. She pointed ahead of them.

“The hall’s this way, I’m sure.”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

They were out of luck. The corridor ended in the kitchens. But they had to be close, Clair figured. Toilets, kitchens, dining hall—they were all part of the same complex.

She remembered her companion’s shy adoration of the enigmatic leader of WHOLE.

“You’ve got it bad for Turner, haven’t you?” Clair said as they struck out in another direction. “I guess that’s one way to keep your disciples.”

“Are you nuts? Turner’s over eighty.”

Clair remembered that Q had said something similar. “You’d never guess to look at him. What’s his secret?”

Jamila didn’t answer. She seemed tense and watchful, taking in everything around her.

“Did you have any trouble with the farmers?” Clair asked. “I think they’re mostly okay, just naturally suspicious.”

The woman glanced at her and shook her head. Her right hand was behind her back, like she was favoring it. Perhaps it was injured.

“No trouble.”

They reached the hall. There was someone else already inside. Clair took in a string of familiar faces.

“Any luck?” asked Theo.

“Found this one,” said Jamila, pulling her hand into view. “She might be able to help us with the rest.”

“Good work.”

“Grab her,” said the man with big ears who had been shot outside the safe house in Manteca. “She’s going to run.”

Clair was backing away from the gun in Jamila’s hand, reeling from the truth and her own stupidity. Jamila hadn’t been among those rescued by the farmers, and neither were the others. They were
dupes
.

Before she could reach the door, Big-Ears darted over and caught her in his long arms. One strong hand went over her mouth. He held her tight and close. She struggled but could barely move. Her bare feet had no effect against his shins.

“No alarm?” Theo asked.

“None,” said Jamila.

Arabelle and another member of WHOLE came out of a corridor on the far side. Arabelle was
walking
. Theo was
talking
.

“Sentries are down,” Theo said. “Let’s get a move on.”

Big-Ears whispered in Clair’s ear. “I’m going to take my hand away, and you’re going to tell me where Turner is. Scream, and I’ll break your neck. Understood?”

She didn’t nod, but the pressure across her mouth eased anyway. She didn’t say anything. The moment they learned how little she knew, they’d kill her for sure. The dupes, the wolves in sheepskins.

But how had they gotten in? How had they bypassed the security Arcady had been so proud of? And how could she possibly stop them now? There were five of them and only one of her.

Big-Ears twisted her head back. Her spine screamed, but she didn’t. She didn’t wet her pants either, against all odds.

That gave her an idea. Not a pleasant one, but it wasn’t as if she had many options.

Big-Ears tightened his grip. She willed herself to relax. It was hard under the circumstance, with the dupe’s arm around her throat and a grisly fate awaiting her. . . .

Warmth flooded down her unclad thighs. The hot, pungent smell of urine hit her nostrils a second later.

Big-Ears smelled it—and he obviously felt it too, since he was holding her so close. His reaction was primal and involuntary, a reflex that kicked in long before his borrowed brain could control it.

Clair exploited his reflex to jackknife forward, breaking his grip. He lunged after her, but she wriggled out of his grasp and ran for the nearest door. Her right foot slipped in the puddle. Somehow she stayed upright.

Five sets of feet rushed after her. The doorway loomed ahead.

Someone stepped out of it, holding a pistol and wearing a familiar face.
Libby
—but the mind behind those familiar eyes could have been anyone’s.

Clair skidded to a halt, raised her hands.

“There you are,” said the dupe. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Be cool, Mallory,” said Theo. “We have everything under control.”

Dupe-Libby took her eyes off Clair. She didn’t say anything. She just stared at the rest of them, eyes frosty and distant, as though assessing them.

Then she raised the gun and shot Big-Ears square in the chest. The sound was deafening, the action devastating. He went down in a shower of blood, and for a second the others just gaped at him, shocked by the suddenness of it all. Arabelle was still staring at his fallen body when Libby shot her as well.

Then the others were reacting. Libby pushed Clair behind her and backed into the doorway, firing as she went. Bullets ricocheted around them, kicking up splinters and whining like angry bees. One caught Libby high on the left shoulder, and she screamed.

Clair took her by the other arm and pulled her backward, out of the firing line.

“Clair, it hurts!”

Clair knew that voice.

“Give me the gun, Q. Give it.”