Twinmaker

15

CLAIR’S INFIELD SHOWED no return bumps, just Zep’s anxious face staring at hers.

“What is it?” she asked. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Libby. You have to get here, fast.”

“Where are you?”

“My dorm. Quick, she’s leaving.”

“I’m 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 Zep’s 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 goods—handmade, hand grown, freshly killed, or wrenched from the sea —but convincing customers that something was unique and not built from a fabber’s memory could be very difficult. Claims and counterclaims were being made in loud voices. The racket hurt Clair’s ears.

She hurried toward Zep’s 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 didn’t understand. Someone whistled at her. She ignored him.

Zep’s 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. “Libby’s 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 didn’t say anything.

“We argued. She knows about us, I’m sure of it. Did you tell her?”

He shook his head. “She didn’t say anything to me about it.”

“Were you going to?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t 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 can’t get meds from my fabber—doping regulations, you know—so we went to a friend of mine who gave her something really strong, something I’d never heard of before. Then she wanted a drink, and it didn’t mix so well. I tried to get her to cool down, but she wouldn’t listen. She was going on and on about awful stuff—things I’d never heard before about her family. If half of it is true, no wonder she’s 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. You’ve been her friend forever.”

Clair rubbed at her temple with the ball of her right thumb. “She wasn’t raped as a child, and both her grandmothers are alive. I’ve met them.”

“So why would she tell me that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she’s trying to get your attention.”

“Well, it’s working. But why she’d 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 didn’t do anything—nothing I can see, anyway. But now these messages have come, and I don’t know what to think.”

He touched her shoulder, and she shrugged him off.

“Don’t.”

“I’m 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 someone’s bugging her, too, maybe that’s 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 didn’t 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.

“I’m going to try calling her,” she said. “Maybe she’ll talk to me.”

“Brace yourself,” he said. “It’s like she’s an entirely different person.”

“Don’t say that. She’s just going through a rough patch.”

To Clair’s amazement, Libby answered immediately.

“I’m beautiful, Clair.” She sounded stoned. “I’m beautiful.”

“Of course you are—you always have been, right? Tell me what’s going on. Let’s talk.”

“What’s there to talk about?” Her voice hardened. “He only wants you because you’re different.”

“Libby, listen to me.” Clair did her best to ignore the attempt to wound her. “I tried Improvement, and it didn’t work—”

“I’m in heaven, and I’m so beautiful,” Libby chanted, marshmallow-soft again. “You’re not and never will be.”

Libby ended the call, and she wouldn’t answer when Clair tried again.

“What did she say?” asked Zep.

“She . . . hang on.”