He straightens up in his portly manner and begins to turn away. I shiver again, a chill running up my spine. It's like he doesn't know I killed him! I realize. I can see Fiore running multiple instances of himself, but surely they'd be aware of each other, by way of their netlink? Why, doesn't he—

"You," I manage to say.

"Yes?"

"You." It's hard to form words. I'm really feeling feverish. "What's the, the . . ."

"I don't have all day!" His voice rises when he's irritated, in an annoying whine. He straightens his robe. "Nurse? I say, nurse!" In a quieter voice, to me: "I'll have them send for your husband. I'm sure you'll have a lot to talk about." Then he turns on his heel and bumbles away down the ward toward the other occupied beds.

I realize my teeth are chattering: I'm not sure whether from fever or black helpless rage. I killed you! And you didn't even notice! Then the nurse comes stomping along in her sensible shoes, clutching some kind of primitive diagnostic instrument, and I realize that I'm feeling extremely unwell.

NURSE Zombie gives me a test that involves sliding a cold glass rod into my ear and staring into my eyes from close range, then she pulls out a jar and gives me what I assume at first is a piece of candy, except that it tastes vile. The hospital is set up to resemble a real dark ages installation, but luckily they seem to draw the line at leeches or heart transplants and similar barbarism. I guess this is some sort of drug, synthesized at great expense and administered to have some random weird systemic effect on my metabolism. "Try to sleep," Nurse explains to me. "You are ill."

"C-cold," I whisper.

"Try to sleep, you are ill." But Nurse bends down and pulls out a loose-weave blanket. "Drink lots of fluids." The glass on the table next to me is empty, and in any case, I feel too shivery to pull an arm out from under the blanket. "You are ill."

No shit. It's not just my arms and legs—all my joints are screaming at me in chorus with a whole load of muscles I wish I didn't have right now—but my head's throbbing and I feel like I'm freezing to death and my stomach's not so good either. And the blackouts and memory fugues are still with me. "What's wrong with, me?" I ask, and it takes a big effort to get the words out.

"You are ill," the zombie repeats. It's useless arguing with her—nobody home, no theory of mind, just a bunch of reflexes and canned dialogues.

"Who can I ask?"

She's turning away, but I seem to have tripped a new response. "The consultant will visit at eight o'clock tonight, all questions must be addressed to the consultant. The patient is weak and must not be disturbed excessively. Drink lots of fluids." She picks up an empty jug that was out of view a moment ago and whisks it away toward one end of the ward. A moment later she's back with it. "Drink lots of fluids."

"Yeah . . ." I shudder and try to work myself into a smaller volume under the blanket. I dimly realize I ought to be asking lots of questions—actually I ought to be forcing myself out of bed and running like my hair's on fire—but right now, just pouring myself a glass of water seems like an heroic task.

I lie back and stare at the ceiling, incoherent with anger and embarrassment. Did I imagine myself killing Fiore in the library? I don't think so; the memories are vivid. But so are all my other memories, the massacres and the endless years of war. And not all my memories are real, are they? The bootstrap memory, talking to another voice in my own larynx—if it's not just a false memory of a false memory, then it certainly wasn't me: It was a customized worm running on my implant. I can't—this is getting difficult—trust myself, especially while I keep going into fugue.

"Can I?" I ask, and I open my eyes again, and Sam startles.

He's leaning over me where Fiore was, and I realize immediately that I've been in fugue for some time. I'm cold, but I'm no longer feverish; the sheets are damp with sweat, and the light visible through the windows is dimming toward evening. "Reeve?" he asks anxiously.

"Sam." I lift my hand and reach for him. He wraps my fingers in his. "I'm ill."

"I came as soon as I heard. Fiore telephoned the office." He sounds slightly shocky, his eyes haunted. "What happened?"

I shiver again. The damp sheets are getting to me. "Later." Meaning: Not where the walls have ears. "Need water." My mouth's really dry. "I keep having fugues."

"The nurse said something about a consultant," says Sam. "Dr. Hanta. She said he'd be coming to look at you later. Are you going to be all right? Why are you ill?"

I clutch Sam's hand as hard as I can. "I don't know." He offers me the water glass, and I swallow. "Suspect . . . not. Not sure. How long was I . . . asleep . . . for?"

"You didn't recognize me when I came in," Sam says. He's holding on to my hand as if he's afraid one of us is drowning. "You didn't recognize me."

"Memory fugue's getting much worse," I say. I lick my lips. "Three"—no, four —"today. I'm not sure why. I keep remembering stuff, but I'm not sure how much of it is real. Thought I'd"—I stop before I say killed Fiore , just in case I really did and there's some other reason the priest doesn't know about it—"escaped. But I woke up here." I close my eyes. "Fiore says I'm ill."

"What am I meant to do?" Sam asks plaintively. "How do I fix you? There's no A-gate here . . ."

"Dark ages tech." My hand aches from gripping him. I force it to relax. "They didn't disassemble people and rebuild them, they used medicine, drugs, and surgery. Tried to repair damaged tissue in situ."

"That's insane!"

I chuckle weakly. "You're telling me? That's what the consultant is, he's a doctor." One of those weird, obsolescent words that doesn't mean what it used to—in the real world outside this prison, a doctor is a scholar, someone who investigates stuff, not a wetware mechanic. I suppose it may have meant the same back in the real dark ages, when nobody really knew how self-replicating organisms functioned and there was an element of research involved. "I think he's meant to figure out what's wrong with me and repair it. Assuming they don't just have a medical assembler down in the basement here—" I clutch his hand, because a horrible thought's just struck me. If they've got a medical A-gate, won't it be infected with Curious Yellow? "Don't let them put me in it!"

"Put you in—what? What is it, Reeve? Reeve, are you having another fugue?"

Things are going gray around me. He leans close, and I whisper, "* * *," in his ear. Then—

DESPERATION is the engine of necessity.

It's two hundred megs since that committee meeting with Al and Sanni and a lot of things have changed. Me, for example: I'm not in military phenotype anymore. Neither is Sanni. We're civilians now, corpuscles of military experience discharged into the circulating confusion of reconstruction that has become the future of Is.

I'm not used to being human again, ortho or otherwise—bits of me are missing. When the war exploded, trapping me on the MASucker for almost a generation, I was reduced to what I was carrying on my person and in my head. Then when I militarized myself, I had to let component aspects of my identity go. I'm not sure why, in all cases. Some things make sense (when at war, one's scruples about inflicting pain and injury on the enemy faction must be suppressed), but there are gaps that follow no obvious rhyme or reason. According to my written notes from the period on the Grateful for Duration , I used to have an abiding and deep interest in baroque music of the preindustrialized age, but now I can't recall even a scrap of melody. Again, I used to be married, with children, but I am mystified by my lack of memories from the period, or feelings. Maybe that was a reaction to grief, and maybe not—but now I've been demobilized, I find myself out of reaction mass and adrift along an escape vector diverging from all attachments. Only my new job retains any hold over me.