Crashland by Sean Williams Page A

black undersuit that looked whisper-thin but was supportive in all the right places, plus a set of shoes, pants, and a hooded top made of blue and white segments that slipped neatly over each other. It was only marginally bulkier than jeans and a sweatshirt, and felt considerably lighter.
    There was a mirror. When she checked herself out, she looked like a young peacekeeper, apart from her hair, which, released from the towel, was already bushing up as it always did. If they’d given her a helmet, she might have worn it just to keep the frizz under control.
    She remembered what Jesse had said about her having potential in this line of work. The figure in the mirror was a glimpse of her possible future, if she wanted it. A zit on her chin emphasized that this future should have been much further away than it seemed right now.
    Her stomach was full of butterflies. There were dupes nearby and they were trying to get to her. As she stepped out of the stall, she bumped her stepfather. Oz was asleep, but her message would be there for him later.

[9]
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    FOREST AND SARGENT showed them how to use the hoods of their uniforms. They were soft and pliable when inactive, but turned rigid and skull hugging at a simple command. The PKs wore similar outfits but with pouches and packs—the complete kit, Clair assumed, unlike their stripped-down versions.
    â€œWe should give our squad a name,” said Devin. “Clair’s Bears, perhaps.”
    Clair winced, thinking of Zep’s nickname for her: Clair-bear.
    â€œThis isn’t a game,” said Jesse. He was standing with his wet hair slicked back, looking stern and nervous at the same time. Devin shrugged.
    Forest’s gaze flicked across each of them, as though testing them.
    â€œAll right,” he said. “This way.”
    The Crystal City barracks network connected with her lenses as she walked through its echoing gray corridors and stairwells, offering menus and links to Forest and Sargent and a number of other PKs, several of whom appeared to be actively monitoring drones already. She had access to more than two dozen audiovisual feeds showing the barracks and its surroundings. Some had detailed commentaries. The rest were blank. She guessed that was where she and the others came in. A couple of hours of scoping out the dupes, she hoped, and she would be free to get back to finding Q.
    â€œWell, so far Washington is a huge disappointment,” said Jesse with a half smile. “Where are the monuments? The museums? The trees?”
    Clair realized only then that, unless his father had physically taken him cross-country from the West Coast and back again, Jesse would never have been to the former U.S. capital before. She had visited twice on school trips and once with her family, all via d-mat. It had been as close to her as any other place in the world, before the crash.
    â€œOverrated,” she said, matching his attempt at lightheartedness with one of her own. “And we’re a ways off from the interesting bits.”
    She tried not to think about all the school kids and tourists out there, stuck in Washington until d-mat could get them home.
    â€œThrough here.”
    Forest waved them into a darkened suite containing six sleek reclining chairs arranged in a circle, feet-inward.
    â€œThere’s a fabber if you’re hungry or thirsty,” Sargent said. “Order what you want and I’ll bring it to you when it’s ready.”
    Clair chose the chair opposite the door. As she sank back into the black leather, she opened the fabber menu via the barracks network. It wasn’t as if she was hungry—the image of her exploded dupe was still horribly fresh in her mind—but she couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten. Thinking of what her mother would say, she ordered coffee, chocolate, and beef jerky, plus a hair band to bring her thick curls into line.
    Devin waited until Jesse had sat next to Clair and