Twinmaker

“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.

52

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.