Hollowgirl (25 page)

BEING CONFINED TO
bed was no obstacle to her plan, not in the short term. Locked-in Agnessa had taught her that. Clair used her lenses to virtually visit all the places in the prison she needed to be. What she found was reassuring. There were arguments over core beliefs—Clair had never
heard so many four-letter words in one string as during a philosophical argument over the soul that broke out in one of the prison's increasingly crowded corridors—but on the whole, the idea of a common enemy kept WHOLE, RADICAL, and everyone else on the same page.

It helped that they were working on separate areas of the plan. Evan and several other RADICAL activists, newly ripped in from locations unknown across the globe, occupied a corner of the hub, connected to Devin, Trevin, and Eve Bartelme at the other end of the exit, conducting tests back and forth. Now that the alliance knew there were booths in the real world, it was just a matter of getting the data out of the Yard fast enough. Clair watched for a while, not really understanding what they were talking about, but noting that not once did Eve or Evan talk directly to each other. Instead, they communicated via their sons or the others in their groups. They behaved like estranged parents, when in fact they were estranged selves, separated by much more than just memories. Clair wondered if that was because of ideological differences—the old RADICAL was different from the new in various small ways, such as Evan's eagerness to work with Q versus Eve's continued wariness—or if it was more about Eve and Evan themselves. Perhaps she and Clair One would have ended up just as distant, given more time to grow apart.

The thought was an uncomfortable one but still didn't
touch her. Clair felt more moved by the sight of Cashile playing on his own, bouncing a ball back and forth in one of the dead ends. He was the last child on Earth, unless Kari Sargent had her way.

Meanwhile, WHOLE commandeered the huge open attic at the top of the prison. It was empty apart from the wheeled vehicles that had brought them all there, and now served as a testing ground for various new hacks. RADICAL played a small part here, with Evan demonstrating a weapon they had devised and used for the first time in their attack on Wallace's stronghold. It had a technical name that Clair didn't understand, but it was quickly dubbed a “glitch-gun” from its basic principles.

Glitches were like errors in a data file, Evan said. Sometimes those errors linked places or people in ways they weren't supposed to be, through things like rips. Sometimes a glitch could be just noise. Glitch-guns turned something with an internal structure, like a target or an enemy combatant, into the noisy kind of glitch. It was like blowing up a tiny bomb inside something, turning it to scattered atoms. The guns worked on anything, including flesh.

As Clair watched, the Yetis on the development team spent half an hour turning chunks of wall into crackling gas, accompanied by a distinctive popping sound. Soon it looked like the chamber had been nibbled at by a giant earthworm. They stopped when the weapon indicated that it was running out of glitch.

Here Clair seriously began to lose track of how it worked.

“The Yard has rules,” said Evan. “Break one rule, and that can lead to another one breaking somewhere else, like a chain reaction. That's where the idea of using the exit as a means of powering our original attack came from: any kind of glitch is a broken rule, so we can use its existence to make more glitches of our own. Of course, it's possible to have too many glitches, such as when Clair One came too close to the exit. That's like putting two rods of enriched uranium next to each other: you get too much power, impossible to control, and an atomic explosion.”

Again, the mention of Clair One brought regret but no grief, even though it was tragic that they had gone in such different directions, each thinking the other one was in the wrong, when in fact both had been trying to do what was right. Clair remembered her feverish fantasies about Clair One being a traitor with embarrassment. Sure, she had been shot and in a confused state, mistaking the glitch of an old conversation with Wallace for a new memory from Clair One . . . but still: as Tash had said, if she couldn't trust herself, who could she trust?

She trusted that Evan understood what he was talking about.

“The generators in our batteries work by taking a small glitch and creating more small ones from it. They'll recharge automatically, given time, as long as you don't run them completely dry.”

Evan went back downstairs, leaving WHOLE to bounce possibilities back and forth. When he was gone, Dylan Linwood joined them, encouraged by a slowdown of hollowmen attacks to put his engineering skills to use. Jesse was with him. Soon they had taken one of the batteries apart and discovered that it worked by creating copies of small things—they looked like tiny crystals—that were similar enough to confuse the Yard into thinking they were in fact identical, causing a tiny glitch. That led to discussions about the possibility of using the guns as fabbers, allowing them to create rather than destroy. Such devices could also be used to build short-lived portals that might allow someone to rip from anywhere, not just through whatever door or window happened to be available. They could also be used to create invisibility cloaks . . . and here Clair's understanding became foggy again.

She bumped Jesse in the hope that he might explain, but he didn't reply. He hadn't replied to any of her messages, and she was beginning to take the hint.
She
used
me,
he had said. Obviously he needed space to process what her other self had done. She could only give it to him and hope that Clair One hadn't done any permanent damage.

As WHOLE knuckled down to fab a prototype of a new kind of glitch-gun, Clair distracted herself from her worries by moving on to the third group, whose existence largely depended upon the other two.

If WHOLE's mission was to make the means of getting to the exit, and RADICAL's was to make sure the exit would actually open for them, the third group took upon themselves the important task of getting revenge.

It started with a meeting in the mess hall. Ronnie, Tash, and Zep were there, and all the Unimprovables, too. They sat on the floor in a circle around Libby, who was still dressed in the armor WHOLE had made for her, with her hair pulled back into a bun. Libby had taken the diamond studs from her ears and wiped off her makeup. She didn't look fashionable or jazzy. She looked tired, and tired of being tired. And that, Clair knew, made her dangerous to cross.

“Clair died trying to save us,” she said from her position in the center of the group. “That's sweet, but it pisses me off, like we needed to be saved—like we couldn't help ourselves, or at least help her help everyone else. She should have trusted us to have her back. We would have, if she'd only asked. But she didn't, and look what happened.”

Zep was nodding, his expression utterly miserable. Like the others, he was hanging on Libby's every word.

“From now on,” said Libby, “no one does anything alone. We're going to work as a team. Clair was a fighter, so that's what we'll be too,
together
, in her name: Team Clair. Okay? Okay.”

I'm still here,
Clair wanted to say, but that wasn't the point. That Libby's Clair, Clair One, had died was critical
to the spell Libby was casting. Everyone stared at her with their full attention, attention that Clair always felt she had had to fight for when she was trying to bring a group around. Libby made it look easy. People
wanted
to listen to her.

Clair had always suspected it would be this way, and here was the proof: Libby was better at knowing what to say when the world's eyes were on her. If their roles had been reversed, maybe the end of the world could have been avoided, and no Clairs or Libbys need have died.

But Clair would never have used Improvement on her own. That was the fact of it. For all of Libby's charm, it came with a dark side. Insecurity and doubt plagued her, which was why she played the star so hard. And that was okay. That was utterly forgivable, if it brought results. Clair didn't want Libby to change a thing.

Except maybe the name of her little gang. It was better than Clair's Bears, but not by much. . . .

“So,” Libby went on, getting down to business, “Team RADICAL and Team WHOLE are going to be doing their things. We need to work with them or else they'll forget us when shit goes down. You know what they're like. We have to go out there and get their attention, then share what we learn on the group chat. We'll meet regularly to work on our plan, and to train. No one's going anywhere without us.”

A cheer went up. Libby clapped her hands and the meeting dissolved. Clair watched them go, thinking,
There's a group chat?

Clair bumped Libby to see if she could join.

“No” came the immediate reply. “You need some time to get it together. And so do I. Call you later, promise.”

Zep had stayed behind. Libby led him to one corner of the mess, where they sat down opposite each other and started to talk, haltingly at first, then in earnest.

Clair neither watched nor listened in. Libby's response had stung, although she could see where it had come from. Clair One had gone off on her own, without trusting her friends or even letting them know what she was doing. She had lied to cover her tracks, and trusted two of Clair's worst enemies.

Clair didn't want to be in the position of having to apologize for Clair One. And neither did Libby. In time, things would be easier. If they had time. . . .

Switching off her feed from the prison, Clair rubbed her closed eyes with her one free hand and eased back onto the mattress, not realizing how tense she'd become. Her eyelids swam with random colors and shades, from bright to deepest blacks. There were lots of other things she could watch, lots of other people going about individual duties, but she was tired. She lay back on the bed with her eyes half lidded, gazing up at the empty ceiling
and wondering what Clair Three had been doing during their brief conversation.

Only slowly did she become aware of someone sitting next to her bed.

“Are you awake?” asked Allison Hill. “I don't want to disturb you.”

Clair froze, unsure which emotion out of so many she was feeling most urgently at that moment.

“What? You're not disturbing me,” she said, hearing and hating the tightness in her voice that suggested she might be lying. “How long have you been there?”

“Just a few minutes.”

“Where . . . where did you come from?”

“Windham. I went home after the census to look for Oz.”

That wasn't what Clair meant.

“What's the last thing you remember? Before . . . all this?”

Allison thought about it, and that brief pause was the longest in Clair's life.

“They took me from the safe house,” Allison said. “They promised me I'd see you. They brought me somewhere else by d-mat, and they told me to wait. They said they were friends of yours, but I don't think they were. I'm not sure about these people either, but they got me out of there, and I'm with you now. That's a good thing, isn't it?”

Clair, nodding, agreed with all her heart. This was no Allison Hill from days ago, who knew nothing about
dupes or Ant Wallace or anything else that had happened. This was the Allison Hill who had been kidnapped before the attack on the seastead, and whom Clair had feared she might never see again.

She burst into tears and reached out for her mother's hand.

HAVING HER MOM
back wasn't just a good thing. It was the best thing in the world at that moment.

“Oz? He's here too. He doesn't remember everything, but that's probably a blessing. I told him to make himself useful finding and bringing in the others who might be kidnapped. He sends his love and promises to come see you later.”

Clair had rolled onto her good side, the better to look at her mother while they talked. It was more gratifying than she had expected, having someone who knew her for who she was, rather than who she used to be. Only Kari, Clair Three, and Q could claim that. Two of those were largely unavailable, and Kari had only been herself since coming to the Yard. She was a friend, but nothing compared to the woman who had given Clair her entire life.

“I still can't believe the lawmakers tried to take over the world,” Allison said, staring into the steam of her coffee.
“Ronnie's great-uncle was one, you know.”

“What was his name?”

“Kieran Defrain.”

Clair checked the list Jesse had found of lawmakers in Kingdon's service. His name wasn't there.

“I guess he was okay,” Clair said.

“Some of them had to be. No group is ever entirely evil. Like Abstainers.”

“Like Grandma Juliet.” When Allison looked surprised, Clair explained, “Q told me.”

“Ah. You were just a toddler then. She went a bit crazy toward the end—not that being an Abstainer means you're crazy—”

“I'm so glad you don't think that.”

“I really don't.” Allison smiled. “Juliet traveled the world without setting foot once in a booth. That was so brave of her. I never told you because I thought it'd freak you out. And now look at you. Just as brave. Even more so.”

Clair felt another cry coming on and fought the urge. She had yet to confront what life would be like as an Abstainer, and wouldn't have to until she was out of the Yard and back in the real world. That was when she would have to earn the adjective “brave.” There were probably thousands of things she hadn't even considered. . . .

“I thought you'd be disappointed in me.”

“Disappointment is for people who can't accept that their
children never turn out exactly like them.” Allison smiled again. “Your grandmother left me her diary. I should give it to you when all this is over. You might find it interesting.”

“We might have to give it to Clair Three, too.” There was a small silence. “Does that freak
you
out?”

“Of course it does. But you know . . . ? I've spent the last few days not knowing if you're dead or alive. If I end up with two of you, that's just good news twice over. Like twins.”

“We had twins at school,” Clair said. “Two boys, Felipe and Fernando Deboo. They hated each other.”

“Who'd hate you?” Allison leaned over and stroked the stubble on Clair's skull. “My little girl. You make me so proud. But I'm glad you're going to be sitting out the big push in here. I don't want you hurting yourself again. Losing one of you is quite enough. . . .”

Clair didn't pursue that thought. Seeing her mother had opened the floodgates of grief on that front, and it was still a tender area. Clair One had died. It could easily have been her, if the bullets that had hit her had found a different mark. From Clair One's point of view, it
had
been her.

“Do you remember Charlie?” she asked her mom. “That old clown of mine?”

Allison laughed, a joyous sound that echoed through the hospital like sunlight off a mirror. She put a hand over her mouth and nodded.

“Of course I remember. You took that thing everywhere.”

“Remember the time I lost him?”

“Which time?”

“When we went to see that pyramid in South America, whatever it was called.”

“El Castillo. Did you have him with you then? I just remember you slipping out of the booth and getting left behind.”

“I went back for Charlie because I dropped him outside.” She studied her mother. “You really don't remember that part? You told me you could've just made me a new one.”

“Did I really say that? That wasn't very sensitive of me. I was probably so worried about you I wasn't thinking straight.”

“Would you really have done it?”

“Of course. We did plenty of times.”

“What?”

“Oh, you were always losing that thing. I can't begin to guess how many replacements we made. Sometimes people would find the one you'd lost and give it back after we'd already made a new one. We'd have to recycle the old one so you wouldn't notice.”

Her mother's eyes twinkled cheerfully at the memory, and perhaps at Clair's obvious discomfiture as well.

“You never guessed?”

“No. When you said you
could
, I didn't know you
did
. . . .”

“Is that why you brought it up? To tell me I could have a replacement Clair instead of the one I lost?”

“No.” Clair bit her lip. “I was going to say that I'm starting to understand how hard it is to tell someone what they don't want to hear.”

Allison sat back into her seat.

“You're
not
sitting this one out, then.”

“Not if I can help it,” Clair said, shifting awkwardly on the bed. Her right hip and shoulder were beginning to ache. “The patches are working. I'm healing. It's important I be part of this.”

“And you are part of this, darling girl, on the outside and in here.” Allison wiped at her eyes. The cheerful twinkles were gone now. “I worry about you. PK Sargent says you've been having nightmares. If you don't have PTSD already . . . All right, all right. I know better than to argue with you. If it's physically possible for you to do it, you'll do it. I just wish you wouldn't. That's all.”

She leaned forward and rested her forehead against Clair's fingers. Clair heard her mother inhale deeply and exhale, but didn't know what to say to make Allison feel better.
I'm going, Mom—get over it
was never going to help.

Allison sat up, a determinedly calm expression on her face.

“I should let you sleep, but first, tell me about Jesse Linwood. He was here when I arrived. You've been seeing
a lot of him lately, I gather. Is there anything I should know?”

Oh, Mom,
she wanted to say,
you have no idea. . . .

But it was easier just to protest embarrassment and outrage at prying parents than to explain the complexity of her love life. Jesse hadn't come to visit her once, and he still wasn't answering her bumps. She could feel his hurt through his silence and the heavy stone walls of the prison, but she didn't know what to do about it.
She's not me,
Clair wanted to say.
I wasn't the one who used you. . . .
But deep down she knew that would be a lie.

Instead she turned the conversation back to Oz, who Clair was sure had everyone organized into working parties on rosters by now. He'd been in the prison, what, an hour?

As they laughed, Clair felt a warmth between them that she knew was real, as real as anything else in the Yard. She and her mother would learn how to share that warmth with Clair Three if they had to. There was more than enough to go around.