Twinmaker

78

Q WENT. CLAIR sensed her going and could see the conversation starting with Wallace elsewhere in the station.

She stood up. Her plan required that she remain connected to the station’s operating system, and she didn’t know how long she had until Wallace revoked that access. But she didn’t need long. All she had to do was call up a particular file and start the process rolling.

sssssss-pop

“That was . . . unexpected.”

The voice came from behind her. She turned and was relieved to see only Turner. Her instructions hadn’t been interfered with by Wallace or anyone else. Turner’s pattern had been plucked safely from the cache and brought to her intact. He looked puzzled, and with good reason. No time at all would have passed for him since his kidnap from the One Penn Plaza building. Unfortunately, there was very little time now to explain what had to happen next.

“Your backpack,” she said, hurrying to him. “Give it to me.”

He did as he was told. Someone was pounding at the door, and Q was sending Clair urgent messages.

She stamped the transmitter underfoot, silencing one of the distractions.

“Ray had grenades,” she said, rummaging through the pack. “Tell me you’ve got some left . . . please.”

“Several.” He showed her. There were four of them, apple-sized black spheres with handgrips and a menacing air. “What’s going on, Clair?”

There wasn’t time to explain fully.

“You wanted to take some direct action, didn’t you?” she said. “Well, here’s your chance.”

He paused for a second, meeting and holding her gaze.

Everything he needed to know was in there.

This was for Libby, she told herself, and Q and Turner and the entire world. It was sacrifice, not suicide, but if a little bit of Mallory was in her, making her do it, then that made the justice all the more poetic. With one gesture, she would rid the world of everything she had been fighting.

Turner grinned.

“We made a terrorist of you in the end, huh?”

She didn’t smile.

ssss—

That wasn’t her activating the booth. Someone had noticed and was trying to stop them. They had only seconds left before the process was complete and they were taken elsewhere, put on ice, or erased.

Clair and Turner faced each other, a grenade in each hand.

“On three,” she said. “One. Two . . .”