Libby looked at Clair, who shrugged.
The third potential partygoer was a girl with Thai features and a South American accent.
Are you Liberty Zeist? she asked Clair.
No, I am, said Libby.
And you want to be a crashlander.
Uh, obviously. We both do.
Havent you heard that all the good sites have been taken?
Libby looked at Clair in frustration. Clairs heart sank. All their jumping and standing around in the cold had been for nothing. If the crashlanders had already been here, that meant no ball and no Zep.
Just messing with you, said the woman with a grin. This is a great find. Congratulations.
She produced three beers from her backpack and tossed one each to Libby and Clair. The third she opened.
What are you waiting for? Its time to party.
But how do you know? Libby asked. Doesnt there have to be a vote or something?
Democracy is so twentieth century. Besides, the queue for the booth is thirty deep already. Id say the decisions been made. The woman grinned and raised her can in salute. Xandra Nantakarn. Welcome to the crashlanders.
Clair turned to Libby and saw the delight she felt mirrored on her best friends face. They whooped and high-fived and toasted each others brilliance with their gifted beers.
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 minutesthe 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 Clairs stomach soured slightly: Libby would have bailed on the site in a second. But what could Clair say? Besides, she wouldnt have been there at all but for Libbys 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 booths ceiling. Canisters spilled out in a noisy silver flood across the floor, disgorging an achingly handsome young man from their midst.
Clairs 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 seeoh, 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 Clairs left boot. She raised it to her mouth to take a hit of cool clarity. It didnt help her light-headedness, though. It wasnt oxygen she craved, and it didnt 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 didnt know except as names and captions in her lenses. There were day-trippers in feathery cloaks and gothic moonwalkers in black and silvertwo 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 wasnt 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 didnt seem to dent anyones 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. Im 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 crowdfashionably 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 couldnt endure in the face of her friends determined good cheer. They were at a crashlander ball! What wasnt 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. Libbys 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. Im glad we did it.
Told you I never let you down. Have you seen Zep?
No . . . but hes looking for you.
Why dont you bump him? asked Ronnie.
The Airs so jammed in here, Libby said. I cant get anyone.
Well, he wont have gone home, said Clair. Hed never leave a scene like this.
Why would he? Libby took a pull on Clairs beer. Everyones so totally gorgeous.
That guy over there in the purple suit, said Tash, pointing surreptitiously, hes someone, isnt he?
If he isnt, he should be. Ronnie pursed her lips in a silent whistle. Oh, and lookhes 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 owls. Her hair swept up to golden points in a fiery wave. Clairs hands came up automatically to touch her thick curls.
Theyre too fantastic to be real, she said. Who are they?
Dont know, said Tash with yearning in her voice. Their profiles are locked.
I put a trawler on their images, said Ronnie, but so far Im just getting junk. Whoever they are, theyre hiding deep in the noise.
Who hides at a party like this? asked Libby. Clair could only guess how often shed checked her own popularity stats to see how high theyd risen.
Spies? suggested Tash.
Youve been watching old movies again, said Ronnie.
Terrorists? asked Clair. Art prankers? Spammers?
How many beautiful criminals do you know?
Maybe theyre advertising Improvement, said Tash.
Ronnie laughed. Why not? That makes as much sense as anything else.
Clair didnt get the joke.
Whats 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. Its 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 yourselfheight, 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 cant be real, said Clair, approaching the issue from a more practical angle. Itd be illegal, for starters.
Absolutely, said Ronnie. You just cant change patterns like that. But writing it down makes it seem real, like a spell from a fairy talesomething that ought to work, even though its impossible.
Nothings impossible, said Libby. Things go wrong. This afternoon my fabber mixed up my makeupI asked for thirteen and it gave me a thirty-one. Whats to stop a booth from mixing a person up as well?
Maybe you asked for the wrong skin tone, said Ronnie.
I didnt. You think I havent done this a thousand times before?
Lets not argue about some stupid meme, said Tash. Were perfect as we are. Whod want to change?
Theres 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 wasnt playing that game. Behind her sweat-thinned makeup, Libbys 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 havent d-matted enough yet for it to take effect.
You could d-mat for a year and it wouldnt make a difference, said Ronnie. Listen
Tash put a hand on Ronnies arm, silencing her. Tash looked mortified, probably by the memory of her own sixth grader comment.
No one even notices your birthmark, she said.
Its true, said Clair. Youre 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 Zeps 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 couldnt explain.
Gut trumps heart, said Tash. I always knew he was too good to be true.
He wasnt 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 wasnt 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 Libbys 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 pastexcept 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 wasnt a thought. It was a feeling so deep in her gut, she couldnt fish it out. It was snagged in her, interfering with everythingschool, her friendships, even her sleep.