Sam holds my hand. "I had surgery to deal with the pain," he says. "And I came out of surgery, and I found I probably didn't need it in the first place. Pain is a stimulus, a signal that the organism needs to take some kind of evasive action, isn't it? I don't mean the chronic pain caused by nerve damage, but ordinary pain. And emotional pain. You need to do something about it, not avoid it. Afterward, it was distant, but I felt empty. Only half-human. And I wasn't sure who I was, either."

I stroke his hand. "Was it the dissociative psychopathology?" I ask. "Or something deeper?"

"Deeper." He sounds absent. "I had such a void that I—well, I made the mistake of falling in love again. Too soon, with somebody who was brilliant and fast and witty and probably completely crazy. And they asked me about the experiment while I was miserable, trying to figure out whether I really was in love or was just fooling myself. We discussed the experiment, but I don't think they were too keen on the idea. And in the end it all got too much for me: I signed up, backed myself up, and woke up in here." He looks at me unhappily. "I made a mistake."

"What?" I stare at him, not sure what to make of this.

"It's not that I don't like sex," he says apologetically, "but I'm in love with someone else. And I'm not going to see them until—" He shakes his head. "Well, there it is. You must think I'm a real idiot."

"No." What I think is, I really have to rescue Cass, Kay, from that scumsucker who's got her locked up. "I don't think you're an idiot, Sam," I hear myself telling him. I lean sideways and kiss him on the cheek in friendly intimacy. He starts, but he doesn't try to push me away. "I just wish we weren't this messed up."

"Me too," he says sadly. "Me too." I lean against him for a while, words seeming redundant at this point. Then, because I'm becoming uncomfortably aware of his body, I get up and head back out to the garage. There's still daylight, and I've got an idea or two in my head that I'd like to work on. If it turns out I have to rescue Kay from Mick and he's violent, I want to be properly equipped.

ON Monday Sam goes to work. And the next day, and the one after that—every day of every week, except Sunday. He's being trained as a legal secretary, which sounds a lot more interesting than it is, although he's getting a handle on the laws and customs of the ancients—some big legal databases survived the dark ages almost untouched, and City Hall has to process a lot of paperwork. One result is that he wears the same dark suits every day, except at home, where it turns out to be okay for him to wear jeans and open-necked shirts.

I begin to get used to him leaving most days, and settle into a routine. I get up in the morning and make coffee for us both. After Sam heads for work I go down to the cellar and work out until I'm covered in sweat and my arms are creaking. Then I have another coffee, go outside, and run the length of the road between the two tunnels several times—at first I make it six lengths, as it's half a kilometer, but I begin to increase it after Tuesday. When I'm staggering with near exhaustion, I go back home and have a shower, another cup of coffee, and either put on something respectable if I'm heading downtown or something disrespectable if I'm going to work in the garage.

There are other unpleasantnesses, of course. About two weeks into our residence, I wake up in the middle of the night with an unpleasant belly cramp. The next morning I'm disgusted to discover that I'm bleeding. I'd heard of menstruation, of course, but I hadn't expected the YFH-Polity designers to be crazy enough to reintroduce it. Most other female mammals simply reabsorb their endometria, why should dark ages humans have to be different? I clean up after myself as well as I can, then find I'm still leaking. It's a miserable time, but when I break down and phone Angel to ask if there's any way of stopping it, she just suggests I go to the drugstore and look for feminine hygiene supplies.

Supplies come from the stores in the downtown zone. I get to shop a couple of times a week. Food comes in prepacked meal containers or as raw ingredients, but I'm a lousy cook and a slow learner so I tend to avoid the latter. This week I pull my routine forward—like, urgently—because feminine hygiene means the drugstore, where they sell pads to wear inside your underwear. The whole business is revolting. What's going to happen next? Are they going to inflict leprosy on us? I grit my teeth and resolve to buy more underwear. And pain medication, which comes in small bitter-tasting disks that you have to swallow and which don't work very well.

Clothing I've more or less sorted out. I've taken to asking Angel or sometimes Alice to choose stuff for my public appearances. This insures me against making a wrong choice and getting on anyone's shit-list. Jen points out that I've got lousy fashion taste, an accusation that might actually carry some weight if there were enough of us in this snow globe of a universe to actually have fashions, rather than simply being on the receiving end of a fragmentary historical clothing database that's advancing through the old-style 1950s at a rate of one planetary year per two tendays.

Other supplies . . . I haunt the hardware shop. Sam probably thinks I'm spending all the money he's earning on makeovers and hairdos or something, but the truth is, I'm looking to my survival. If and when the assassins find me, I'm determined they're going to have a fight on their hands. I don't think he's even looked in the garage once since we moved in. If he had, he'd probably have noticed the drill press, welding kit, and the bits of metal and wood and nails and glue and the workbench. And the textbooks: The Crossbow, Medieval and Modern, Military and Sporting, Its Construction History and Management. It's funny what's survived.

Currently I'm reading a big fat volume called The Swordsmith's Assistant. There's method in my madness. While there's no obvious way I can get my hands on a blaster or other modern weaponry, and I'm not suicidal enough to play with explosives inside a pressurized hab without knowing its physical topology, it occurs to me that you can still raise an awful lot of mayhem with the toys you can build in a dark age machine shop. My main headache with the crossbow, in fact, is going to be knowing the axis of rotation in each sector, so that I can correct myaim for Coriolis force. Which is where the plumb bob and the laser distance meter come in.

In public, I'm working hard at being a different person. I don't want anyone to figure out that I'm building an arsenal.

The ladies of our cohort—which means Jen, Angel, me, and Alice, because Cass still isn't allowed out in public by her husband—meet up for lunch three times a week. I don't ask after Cass because I don't want Jen to get the idea that I'm interested in her. She'd peg it as a weakness and try to figure out how to exploit it. I don't want her to get any kind of handle of me, so I dress up and meet them at a restaurant or cafe, and smile and listen politely as they discuss what their husbands are doing or the latest gossip about their neighbors. The nine other houses on my road are standing vacant, waiting for the next cohorts of test subjects to arrive, but that's unusual—I gather the others live near to people from other cohorts, and there's a rich sea of gossip lapping around the tide pools of suburban anomie.

"I think we can make some mileage against cohort three," Jen says one day, over a Spanish omelet dusted with paprika. She sounds cunning.

"You do?" Angel asks anxiously.

"Yes." Jen looks smug.

"Do tell." Alice puts her fork down in the wreckage of her Caesar salad. She's trying to look interested, but she can't fool me. Jen casts her a sharp look, then stabs her omelet.