PRAISE FOR THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING UGLIES SERIES
UGLIES
* “Teens will sink their teeth into the provocative questions about invasive technology, image-obsessed society, and the ethical quandaries of a mole-turned-ally. . . . Ingenious.”
—Booklist, starred review
PRETTIES
“Westerfeld has built a masterfully complex and vivid civilization.”
—School Library Journal
SPECIALS
* “This is a thrilling, painful, and ultimately satisfying volume in the best YA SF in years.”
—KLIATT, starred review
EXTRAS
“A superb piece of popular art.”
—New York Times Book Review
CONTENTS
Part I: Watch This
Down and Out
Tech-Heads
Underground
Audition
Big Brother
Frizz
Sly Girls
Surfing
Tunnel
Rescue
Radical Honesty
Initiation
Turbulence
The Mountain
The Hidden
Escape
Shaft
Air Pressure
Slime Queen
Mass Driver
Part II: City Killers
Banned
Testing
Shafted
Joyride
Kicking It
Truth-Slanting
Feeding Frenzy
Pinned
Run and Hide
The Wisdom of the Crowd
Paparazzi
Shuffle Mansion
Cutters
Honorary Cutter
The Plan
Part III: Leaving Home
Captive Audience
Advanced English
Udzir
Hard Landing
Jungle
Ruin
Metal
Make Like a Monkey
The Pile
The Usual Place
Do-Over
Night Flight
Mass Production
Missile
Hands
An Old Friend
Two Birds with One Stone
Conflagration
Rekicking It
Thousand Faces
‘Afterworlds’ Excerpt
‘Leviathan’ Excerpt
About the Author
To everyone who wrote to me to reveal the secret definition of the word “trilogy.”
Part I
WATCH THIS
You all say you need us. Well, maybe you do, but not to help you. You have enough help, with the millions of bubbly new minds about to be unleashed, with all the cities coming awake at last. Together, you’re more than enough to change the world without us. So from now on, David and I are here to stand in your way. You see, freedom has a way of destroying things.
—Tally Youngblood
DOWN AND OUT
“Moggle,” Aya whispered. “You awake?”
Something moved in the darkness. A pile of dorm uniforms rustled, as if a small animal stirred underneath. Then a shape slipped from among the folds of spider silk and cotton. It rose into the air and floated toward Aya’s bed. Tiny lenses gazed at her face, curious and alert, reflecting starlight from the open window.
Aya grinned. “Ready to go to work?”
In answer, Moggle flashed its night-lights.
“Ouch!” Aya squeezed her eyes shut. “Don’t do that! It’s vision-wrecking!”
She lay in bed another moment, waiting for the spots to fade. The hovercam nuzzled against her shoulder apologetically.
“It’s okay, Moggle-chan,” she whispered. “I just wish I had infrared too.”
Lots of people her age had infrared vision, but Aya’s parents had this thing about surge. They liked to pretend the world was still stuck in the Prettytime, when everyone had to wait until they turned sixteen to change themselves. Crumblies could be so fashion-missing.
So Aya was stuck with her big nose—definitely ugly—and her normal vision. When she’d moved out of her home and into a dorm, her parents had given her permission to get an eyescreen and skintenna, but that was only so they could ping whenever they wanted. Still, it was better than nothing. She flexed her finger and the city interface flickered to life, layering across her vision.
“Uh-oh,” she said to Moggle. “Almost midnight.”
She didn’t remember dozing off, but the tech-head bash must have already started. It was probably crowded by now, packed enough with surge-monkeys and manga-heads that nobody would notice one ugly extra snooping around.
Besides, Aya Fuse was an expert at being invisible. Her face rank was proof of that. It sat unmoving in the corner of her vision: 451,396.
She let out a slow sigh. In a city of a million, that was total extra-land. She’d had her own feed for almost two years now, had kicked a great story just a week ago, and was still anonymous.
Well, tonight was finally going to change that.
“Let’s go, Moggle,” she whispered, and slipped out of bed.
A gray robe lay in a shapeless puddle at her feet. Aya pulled it over her dorm uniform and tied it at the waist, then perched on the windowsill. She turned to face the night sky slowly, easing one leg, then the other, out into the cool air.
She slipped on her crash bracelets, glancing at the ground fifty meters below.
“Okay, that’s dizzy-making.”
At least no monitors were skulking around down there. That was the kick thing about a thirteenth-story room—no one expected you to sneak out your window.
Thick clouds hung low in the sky, reflecting worklights from the construction site across town. The cold tasted of pine needles and rain, and Aya wondered if she was going to freeze in her disguise. But she couldn’t exactly throw a dorm jacket over the robe and expect people not to notice.
“Hope you’re all charged up, Moggle. It’s drop-time.”
The hovercam drifted past her shoulder and out the window, settling close against her chest. It was the size of half a soccer ball, sheathed in hard plastic and warm to the touch. As Aya wrapped her arms around Moggle, she felt her bracelets trembling, caught in the magnetic currents of the hovercam’s lifters.
She squeezed her eyes shut. “Ready?”
Moggle shivered in her arms.
Clinging to the hovercam with all her strength, Aya pushed herself into the void.
• • •
Getting out was much simpler these days.
For Aya’s fifteenth birthday, Ren Machino—her big brother’s best friend—had modified Moggle. She’d only asked him to make it quick enough to keep up with her hoverboard. But like most tech-heads, Ren took pride in his mods. The new Moggle was waterproof, shockproof, and powerful enough to carry an Aya-size passenger through the air.
Close enough, anyway. With her arms wrapped around the hovercam, she fell no faster than a cherry blossom twirling toward the ground. It was much easier than stealing a bungee jacket. And except for the nervous-making moment of jumping, it was kind of fun.
She watched the windows flicker past—dreary rooms full of standard-requisition squalor. No one famous lived in Akira Hall, just loads of face-missing extras wearing generic designs. A few ego-kickers sat talking into their cams, watched by no one. The average face rank here was six hundred thousand, despair-making and pathetic.
Obscurity in all its horror.
Back in the Prettytime, Aya vaguely remembered, you just asked for awesome clothes or a new hoverboard and they popped out of the hole in the wall like magic. But these days, the hole wouldn’t give you anything decent unless you were famous or had merits to spend. And getting merit
s meant taking classes or doing chores—whatever the Good Citizen Committee commanded, basically.
Moggle’s lifters connected with the metal grid beneath the ground, and Aya bent her knees, rolling as she hit. The wet grass squished beneath her like a sodden sponge, soft but shivery cold.
She let go of Moggle and lay for a moment on the rain-soaked earth, letting her heartbeat slow down. “You okay?”
Moggle flashed its night-lights again.
“Okay . . . that’s still blind-making.”
Ren had also modified the hovercam’s brain. True AI might still be illegal, but the new Moggle was more than just a wedge of circuitry and lifters. Since Ren’s tinkering, it had learned Aya’s favorite angles, when to pan and zoom, and even how to track her eyes for cues.
But for some reason, it didn’t get the whole night-vision thing.
She kept her eyes closed, listening hard as she watched the spots across her vision fade. No footsteps, no whir of monitor drones. Nothing but the muffled thump of music from the dorm.
Aya rose to her feet and brushed herself off. Not that anyone would notice the wet grass clinging to her; Reputation Bombers dressed to disappear. The robe was hooded and shapeless, the perfect disguise for party-crashing.
With a twist of a crash bracelet, a hoverboard rose from its hiding place in the bushes. Stepping on, Aya faced the glittering lights of Prettyville.
Funny how everyone still called it that, even if most of the residents weren’t pretty anymore—not in the old sense, anyway. Prettyville was full of pixel-skins and surge-monkeys, and plenty of other strange new fads and fashions. You could choose among a million kinds of beauty or weirdness, or even keep your natural-born face your whole life. These days “pretty” meant whatever got you noticed.
But one thing about Prettyville was still the same: If you hadn’t turned sixteen, you weren’t supposed to go there. Not at night, when all the good stuff happened.
Especially if you were an extra, a loser, an unknown.
Gazing at the city, she felt engulfed by her own invisibility. Each of its sparkling lights stood for one of the million people who had never heard of Aya Fuse. Who probably never would.
She sighed, urging her hoverboard forward.
The government feeds always said that the Prettytime was gone forever, freeing humanity from centuries of bubbleheadedness. They claimed that the divisions among uglies, pretties, and crumblies had all been washed away. That the last three years had unleashed a host of new technologies, setting the future in motion again.
But as far as Aya could see, the mind-rain hadn’t changed everything. . . .
It still pretty much sucked, being fifteen.
TECH-HEADS
“Are you getting this?” she whispered.
Moggle was already shooting, the shimmer of safety fireworks reflecting from its lenses. Hot-air balloons swayed over the mansion, and revelers screamed down from the rooftops in bungee jackets. It looked like a party back in the old days: self-indulgent and eye-kickingly radiant.
At least, that was how Aya’s older brother always described the Prettytime. Back then everyone had gotten one big operation on their sixteenth birthday. It made you beautiful, but secretly changed your personality, leaving you brain-missing and easily controlled.
Hiro hadn’t been a bubblehead very long; he’d turned sixteen only a few months before the mind-rain had arrived and cured the pretties. He liked to claim that those months had been awful—as if being shallow and vain was such a stretch for him. But he never denied that the parties had been awesome.
Not that Hiro would be here tonight; he was way too famous. Aya checked her eyescreen: the average face rank inside was about twenty thousand. Compared with her older brother, the people at this bash were total extras.
Compared to an ugly ranked at half a million, though, they were legends.
“Be careful, Moggle,” she whispered. “We’re not wanted here.”
Aya flipped up the hood of her robe, and stepped out of the shadows.
Inside, the air was full of hovercams. From Moggle-size all the way down to paparazzi swarms, each cam no bigger than a champagne cork.
There was always plenty to see at tech-head parties, crazy people and kick new gadgets. Maybe people weren’t as beautiful as back during the Prettytime, but parties were a lot more interesting: serious surge-monkeys with snake fingers and medusa hair; smart-matter clothes that rippled like flags in a breeze; safety fireworks skittering along the floor, dodging feet and sizzling incense as they passed.
Tech-heads lived for new technologies—they loved showing off their latest tricks, and kickers loved putting them on their feeds. The endless cycle of invention and publicity bumped everyone’s face rank, so everyone was happy.
Everyone who got invited, anyway.
A hovercam buzzed close, almost low enough to peek in at Aya’s face. She lowered her head, making her way toward a cluster of Reputation Bombers. Here in public they all kept their hoods up, like a bunch of pre-Rusty Buddhist monks. They were already bombing: chanting the name of some random member of the clique, trying to convince the city interface to bump his face rank.
Aya bowed to the group and joined the blur of name-dropping, keeping her ugly face covered.
The whole point of bombing was to dissect the city’s reputation algorithms: How many mentions of your name did it take to crack the top thousand? How quickly did you drop if everyone stopped talking about you? The clique was one big controlled experiment, which was why they all wore the same anonymous outfits.
But Aya figured most Bombers didn’t care about the math. They were just cheaters, pathetic extras trying to talk themselves famous. It was like how they’d manufactured celebrities back in Rusty days, a handful of feeds hyping a few bubbleheads and ignoring everybody else.
What was the point of the reputation economy, if someone was telling you who to talk about?
But Aya chanted away like a good little Bomber, keeping her attention on her eyescreen, watching the view from Moggle’s lenses. The hovercam drifted over the crowd, picking out faces one by one.
The secret clique Aya had discovered had to be here somewhere. Only tech-heads could pull off a trick like that. . . .
She’d spotted them three nights before, riding on top of one of the new mag-lev trains, traveling at insane speeds through the factory district—so fast that all the shots Moggle had taken were too grainy and blurry to use.
Aya had to find them again. Whoever kicked a crazy trick like mag-lev riding would be instantly famous.
But Moggle was already distracted, watching a gaggle of NeoFoodies underneath a pink blob floating in the air. They were drinking from it with meter-long straws, like astronauts recapturing a spilled cup of tea.
NeoFoodies were old news—Hiro had kicked a story about them last month. They ate extinct mushrooms grown from ancient spores, made ice cream with liquid nitrogen, and injected flavors into weird forms of matter. The floating pink stuff looked like an aerogel, dinner with the density of a soap bubble.
A small blob broke off and floated past. Aya grimaced, smelling rice and salmon. Eating strange substances might be a great way to bump your face rank, but she preferred her sushi heavier than air.
She liked being around tech-heads, though, even if she had to hide. Most of the city was still stuck in the past, trying to rediscover haiku, religion, the tea ceremony—all the things that had been lost in the Prettytime, when everyone had been brain-damaged. But tech-heads were building the future, making up for three centuries of missing progress.
This was the place to find stories.
Something in her eyescreen sent a flicker of recognition through her.
“Hold it, Moggle!” she hissed. “Pan left.”
There behind the NeoFoodies, watching with amusement as they chased down stray bloblets, was a familiar face.
“That’s one of them! Zoom in.”
The girl was about eighteen, classic new-pretty s
urge with slightly manga eyes. She was wearing a hoverball rig, floating gracefully ten centimeters above the floor. And she had to be famous: A reputation bubble surrounded her, a cohort of friends and groupies to keep extras away.
“Get close enough to hear them,” Aya whispered. Moggle eased to the edge of the bubble, and soon its microphones caught the girl’s name. Data spilled across Aya’s eyescreen. . . .
Eden Maru was a hoverball player—left wing for the Swallows, who’d been city champions last year. She was also legendary for her lifter mods.
According to all the feeds, Eden had just dumped her boyfriend because of “a difference in ambition.” Of course, that was just code for “she got too famous for him.” Eden’s face rank had hit ten thousand after the championship, and what’s-his-name’s was stuck at a quarter million. Everyone knew she needed to hook up with someone more face-equal.
But none of the rumors mentioned Eden’s new mag-lev riding clique. She must be keeping that a secret, waiting for the right moment to reveal the trick.
Kicking it first would make Aya famous overnight.
“Track her,” she told Moggle, then went back to chanting.
• • •
Half an hour later, Eden Maru headed out.
Slipping away from the Bombers was bliss-making—Aya had chanted the name “Yoshio Nara” about a million times. She hoped Yoshio enjoyed his pointless face rank bump, because she never wanted to hear his name again.
From Moggle’s midair view, Eden Maru was slipping through the door—alone, no entourage. She had to be headed off to meet her secret clique.
“Stay close to her, Moggle,” Aya croaked. All that chanting had left her throat dry. She spotted a drinks tray hovering past. “I’ll catch up in a minute.”
Grabbing a glass at random, Aya guzzled it down. The alcohol sent a shudder through her—not exactly what she needed. She snatched another drink with lots of ice and pushed her way toward the door.
A gaggle of pixel-skins stood in her way, their bodies rippling through colors like drunken chameleons. She slipped among them, recognizing a couple of their faces from the surge-monkey feeds. A little reputation shiver went through her.
Out on the mansion steps Aya spilled the drink out through her fingers, saving the ice cubes. She tipped the glass back into her mouth and started crunching. After the sweltering party a mouthful of ice was heavenly.