Twinmaker

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 didn’t stop to see who it belonged to. She ran down the stairs three at a time.

“What’s happening, Clair?” asked the peacekeeper.

“You told him,” she said. “You told him where I was!”

“Told who, Clair? I’m afraid I don’t 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 floor’s 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 didn’t 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 couldn’t move. The end of the barrel was like a black hole, growing larger with every degree it rose. Behind it, Jesse’s 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 wasn’t even warped.

—pop

Her legs had no strength beneath her. She wasn’t 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 she’d 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.

Isn’t he dead?

Outside the booth there was no sign of anyone she recognized. No Big-Ears. Zep hadn’t 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 you’re 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 can’t 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 Gemma’s 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 Zep’s 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? What’s in it for you?”

“I just want to help you, Clair. I am on your side. You can trust me.”

Clair wasn’t certain about that. “Who are you?”

“Does that matter? Can’t I just help you?”

Clair screwed up her face. It was like she was talking to a kid of some kind—a 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 wasn’t 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 didn’t ignore it.

“There’s a guy following me, trying to hurt me,” she said. A dead man. “Please don’t 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.

“That’s 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 Zep’s 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. “I’m 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 I’ll 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 don’t 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. You’re 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 couldn’t 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 didn’t dare look.

“Keep going straight. I will tell you when to deviate from this course.”

“But you’ll warn me if he’s about to catch me, won’t 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?”