Twinmaker

2

ANYONE IN THE world over fifteen years of age could solo jump. Anyone over eighteen could consume alcohol. For the crashlanders, and for seventeen-year-olds like Clair and Libby, that was a winning combination.

For the next hour, people arrived singly or in pairs, four times every three minutes—the fastest the old booth could cycle. Most brought supplies with them. Before long the cold metal space of the old observatory was transformed by inflatable couches, radiant heaters, multicolored spotlights, and even sparklers and other small fireworks. Food and drink flowed in ever-growing quantities. Eventually, someone brought a whole fabber through, so there was no more waiting for the old booth to cycle to see what came next.

Clair helped herself to a handful of warm roasted chickpeas and another beer and followed Libby through the crowd, syncing her lenses and ear-rings to the media enjoyed by whatever cluster she was closest to. Two separate dance parties were forming at opposite ends of the cavernous space, one swaying to cruise music with a syncopated Spanish beat, the other jerking and twitching to harsh, atonal synth. Libby migrated from one to the other with willful unpredictability, drawn by the attention of those around her.

“Super crashlanding, Libby.”

“Outrageous space, Libby.”

“Libby, how did you find it?”

Sometimes they thought Clair was Libby because of the photo Libby had posted to the forum. Libby corrected them, then accepted their admiration. Not once did she say that it was Clair who had made her post the picture. The beer in Clair’s stomach soured slightly: Libby would have bailed on the site in a second. But what could Clair say? Besides, she wouldn’t have been there at all but for Libby’s insistence. They were both crashlanders now. It evened out, like their complexions.

There was no sign of Zep, even though Libby must have invited him: boyfriends or girlfriends were allowed, Clair had learned, whether they were officially crashlanders or not.

Then, ninety minutes into the ball, a metallic crash came from the booth. Both Libby and Clair spun around in alarm, fearing some kind of accident or breakdown that would bring the still-growing party to an end. The doors had opened on a delivery of oxygen canisters that went right up to the booth’s ceiling. Canisters spilled out in a noisy silver flood across the floor, disgorging an achingly handsome young man from their midst.

Clair’s breath hitched in her throat.

“Zep!” Libby rushed forward to help him to his feet. He was long, lean, and tanned, wearing a translucent red-check shirt with a white wifebeater underneath and holding an oxygen bottle in each hand. His grin was infectious. People cheered, whether they knew him or not.

“For medicinal purposes only, now,” he said, taking a long pull on one of the bottles and handing the other to a random stranger. “If symptoms of altitude sickness persist, please see—oh, hey, Libs.”

Clair was excited to see him, but she averted her eyes as he and Libby locked lips. The way Libby pulled his blond head down to hers left no illusion as to who belonged to whom.

One of the bottles knocked against Clair’s left boot. She raised it to her mouth to take a hit of cool clarity. It didn’t help her light-headedness, though. It wasn’t oxygen she craved, and it didn’t ease the guilty ache in her heart at all. She turned her back on the tableau and moved away.

“Hey, Clair-bear,” Zep called after her. “Wait up—”

She wandered on her own for a bit, not going so far as to deliberately avoid the happy couple but enjoying being among people she didn’t know except as names and captions in her lenses. There were day-trippers in feathery cloaks and gothic moonwalkers in black and silver—two migratory groups who never normally met, since they occupied different hemispheres, day and night. The crashlanders had united them, as the ball united all races, types, and sexual orientations. Clair flirted a bit, flattered and embarrassed at the same time by the men and women who approached her, but her heart wasn’t in it.

She moved on. It was getting crowded and increasingly hard to hear anything over the excited shouting and singing. There were a lot of nosebleeds from the altitude, but that didn’t seem to dent anyone’s desire to party. She wondered what would happen if someone got really hurt. Would the peacekeepers come to shut the ball down? Clair took some guilty comfort from the thought that if trouble did break out, Libby would get the blame, just like she took all the credit.

“Hey,” said someone, “I think that Zep guy is looking for you.”

“You mean Libby,” she said, beginning to get a little tired of her perpetually mistaken identity. “I’m Clair, the other one.”

“Oh, okay, sorry.”

She headed for the nearest lookout, which was colder but had a spectacular view. A pair of unexpectedly familiar faces stood out from the crowd—fashionably bespectacled Ronnie and blue-haired Tash, friends from school. The girls drew her into their corner, where they hugged and kissed her and danced with her to a song they had been sharing. Clair felt her mood bounce back. The emotional knock of seeing Zep with Libby couldn’t endure in the face of her friends’ determined good cheer. They were at a crashlander ball! What wasn’t exciting about that?

As the song wound down, Tash explained that they had scored invites when friends of friends responded sympathetically to their urgent need to attend. Libby’s Air-wide announcement that she and Clair had made it in had prompted a rush of interest from their high school. Ronnie and Tash were the lucky ones.

Then Libby joined them, bursting out of the crowd with her hair plastered across her forehead, darkened with sweat.

“This was a great idea,” Clair confessed to her, feeling flushed and sticky. “I’m glad we did it.”

“Told you I never let you down. Have you seen Zep?”

“No . . . but he’s looking for you.”

“Why don’t you bump him?” asked Ronnie.

“The Air’s so jammed in here,” Libby said. “I can’t get anyone.”

“Well, he won’t have gone home,” said Clair. “He’d never leave a scene like this.”

“Why would he?” Libby took a pull on Clair’s beer. “Everyone’s so totally gorgeous.”

“That guy over there in the purple suit,” said Tash, pointing surreptitiously, “he’s someone, isn’t he?”

“If he isn’t, he should be.” Ronnie pursed her lips in a silent whistle. “Oh, and look—he’s with that amazing redhead we spotted earlier.”

Clair glanced around and saw a couple leaning shoulder-to-shoulder in the nearest doorway. His eyes were perfect almonds, golden-irised like an owl’s. Her hair swept up to golden points in a fiery wave. Clair’s hands came up automatically to touch her thick curls.

“They’re too fantastic to be real,” she said. “Who are they?”

“Don’t know,” said Tash with yearning in her voice. “Their profiles are locked.”

“I put a trawler on their images,” said Ronnie, “but so far I’m just getting junk. Whoever they are, they’re hiding deep in the noise.”

“Who hides at a party like this?” asked Libby. Clair could only guess how often she’d checked her own popularity stats to see how high they’d risen.

“Spies?” suggested Tash.

“You’ve been watching old movies again,” said Ronnie.

“Terrorists?” asked Clair. “Art prankers? Spammers?”

“How many beautiful criminals do you know?”

“Maybe they’re advertising Improvement,” said Tash.

Ronnie laughed. “Why not? That makes as much sense as anything else.”

Clair didn’t get the joke.

“What’s Improvement?”

“A dumb new meme,” said Ronnie. “I got an invite this morning and deleted it immediately.”

“I got one this afternoon,” said Tash. “Check your infield, Clair. You might have been ‘selected’ while you were here, you lucky thing, you.”

Clair did check, and found the message exactly where Tash had suggested. It had come forty-five minutes earlier. She read the opening lines:

You are special.

You are unique.

And you have been selected.

“It does sound like spam,” she said.

“Read it all,” said Ronnie. “It’s a classic.”

Clair skimmed ahead. The idea was to write a series of code words on a piece of paper, of all things, with a description of what you wanted to change about yourself—height, intelligence, good looks, whatever; then you hid it under your clothes and took it with you through d-mat. Do this enough times, the invite said, and whatever you wish for will come true.

Keep this a secret.

You deserve it.

“Not even a sixth grader would fall for those last two lines, would they?” said Tash, adopting a fake voice. “‘No one but you is special enough to receive this message, which we probably sent to everyone in the whole world.’ Yeah, right.”

“It can’t be real,” said Clair, approaching the issue from a more practical angle. “It’d be illegal, for starters.”

“Absolutely,” said Ronnie. “You just can’t change patterns like that. But writing it down makes it seem real, like a spell from a fairy tale—something that ought to work, even though it’s impossible.”

“Nothing’s impossible,” said Libby. “Things go wrong. This afternoon my fabber mixed up my makeup—I asked for thirteen and it gave me a thirty-one. What’s to stop a booth from mixing a person up as well?”

“Maybe you asked for the wrong skin tone,” said Ronnie.

“I didn’t. You think I haven’t done this a thousand times before?”

“Let’s not argue about some stupid meme,” said Tash. “We’re perfect as we are. Who’d want to change?”

“There’s always something,” said Ronnie.

“Like what?” Tash asked with a grin. “Being such a know-it-all?”

“Pfft. Legs and lungs so I could run a marathon. What about you?”

“Bikini line, no question. Clair?”

“Uh . . .” Clair would have chosen her nose, but she wasn’t playing that game. Behind her sweat-thinned makeup, Libby’s birthmark had turned a deeper shade, as though it was blushing on her behalf.

“My invite came yesterday,” Libby said. “I did it. I used Improvement.”

“Why the hell?” said Ronnie.

“Just in case, okay?” She looked sheepish but her jaw had a defiant set. “The note says it takes a while. Maybe I haven’t d-matted enough yet for it to take effect.”

“You could d-mat for a year and it wouldn’t make a difference,” said Ronnie. “Listen—”

Tash put a hand on Ronnie’s arm, silencing her. Tash looked mortified, probably by the memory of her own “sixth grader” comment.

“No one even notices your birthmark,” she said.

“It’s true,” said Clair. “You’re the only one it bothers.”

“I notice it,” Libby said. “It does bother me.”

“We love you no matter what,” said Ronnie, “and you know Zep will, too.”

Clair nodded a little too hard.

“I think Zep’s seeing someone else,” Libby said.

The resulting chorus of outrage drove all thoughts of Improvement from the conversation.

“Details!” Ronnie demanded, but there were none for Libby to relate, really, just a feeling of distance, of pulling back, that she was certain of but couldn’t explain.

“Gut trumps heart,” said Tash. “I always knew he was too good to be true.”

“He wasn’t good enough,” said Ronnie.

“Agreed,” said Clair. “Why would anyone cheat on you, Libby?”

Libby shot Clair a look that was unlike anything Clair had ever seen from her best friend before. It was challenging and vulnerable at the same time. This was a Libby Clair barely recognized.

She knows, Clair thought. Oh God, she knows.

But how could she? There wasn’t really anything to know. That was the thought Clair had alternately reassured and tormented herself with since it had happened, or not happened, depending on how you looked at it. After an ordinary night hanging out and mucking around at Libby’s place, wherever in Sweden, Zep had walked Clair to the booth on the ground floor and kissed her good night. A simple good-night peck on the lips no different from any other in the past—except this time maybe it went on an instant longer than normal, and maybe something new crackled between them, and maybe Zep felt it too, whatever it was, because he hesitated before getting into the booth and zapping off to the Isle of Shanghai, leaving her reeling with the unprompted and unwanted thought that maybe he was dating the wrong girl.

It should be you, that thought said. Not Libby. Only it wasn’t a thought. It was a feeling so deep in her gut, she couldn’t fish it out. It was snagged in her, interfering with everything—school, her friendships, even her sleep.

Zep was fun, handsome, and her best friend’s boyfriend. He wasn’t an option. And she didn’t know what was worse—the cliché or the strain of holding two equal and opposite feelings at once.

Nothing had changed since the kiss, of course. He had played typically hard to get ever since, and it didn’t look like anything had changed between him and Libby.

But now this, and this only, made things worse. If Libby did break up with Zep, and if Clair and he did hook up, what would Libby think then? That Clair had been the other woman all the time?

As if, Clair told herself, unable to hold Libby’s hot gaze any longer. Zep probably had girls mobbing him everywhere he went. Take that very night, the crashlander ball. Who knew where he was right then? He wasn’t with Libby, and he wasn’t with Clair, either, and that spoke volumes.

“Sorry, guys.” Libby’s voice was barely audible over the racket of the party. “I think I’m going to go home. My head is pounding, and I’m not really up to this now.”

Clair and her friends tried to talk Libby out of leaving, but she was adamant. Migraines were migraines, and the party bubble had popped, she said. It simply wasn’t fun now that Zep was here; he was stressing her out too much. Yes, Libby would confront him about it, but not now. Tomorrow, maybe.

Clair trailed with Libby back to the booth, just the two of them, as the night had started.

One of the doors was open, its mirrored interior empty and waiting.

“You sure you’ll be okay?” Clair asked.

Libby nodded, downcast. Clair impulsively took her hand and held her there for a moment. I love you, she wanted to say. I’ve known you nearly all my life, and you understand me better than anyone. You’ve fixed everything from grazed knees to panic attacks. I would never do anything to hurt you. When this stupid crush passes and you and Zep get married, I’ll be your maid of honor, and no one will remember but me.

But the words wouldn’t come. Clair could only hope that her eyes said everything she needed to express.

Libby let go and went into the booth.

“Stay beautiful,” she said.

“Yeah . . . you too.”

The door slid behind her, and the old booth whirred.