“You don’t like me using this shape. Your brother’s—your husband’s; that you can tolerate. Thisbothers you.”

“I hate your guts. Surprising?”

“And now you’re scared. Something’s got inside.”

She was. She stared at the thing eye to eye and it had her own most determined look.

“Go to hell,” she said.

“Your strategy is self-defense. Around that you arrange your priorities. I understand this.”

It had made her angry. It had made her afraid. It had indeed gotten through. Stupid,she thought, stupid to debate this thing.That it had her, that it lived inside her head, made her afraid not to listen to it, and that was a trap. She shut that worry down, assumed its own crosslegged pose in mockery. “Suppose we see your face. The way you really are.”

“Clever,” it said.

“I shut you off, didn’t I?”

It smiled, her own most wicked smile. “Shut me down cold,” it said.

“That brain reacts—mirror image to mine.”

“When it’s on the same track. Think of children.”

Back in her lap. She went off her balance, confused.

“You don’t like the idea,” it said. “Rafe’s upset you didn’t live to have the kids he wanted so, he’s upset and ashamed he’s upset, and won’t mention it to you because he thinks in the first place you’re grieved at losing that chance and secondly that you’d think it affects his care for you. I know. I felt it quite distinctly.”

“Thank him for me,” she said hoarsely. “Spare him my opinions.”

“You did. Spare him that, I mean. Your sex bears the young, with some pain; more than that—the time. You bear one at a time; there had to be several. It meant going to Ajax, being absent from everything you valued, for a long period of your lifespan; it meant inactivity; it meant kids’ noise and helplessness, which you don’t like; it meant pretending for years and years that you were happy when you weren’t, because your misery would affect the men, and cause them pain, and affect the kids, and ruin all the rest of the years you had left to live. Everything Rafe’s worked for—depends on you. And you hate it.”

“Don’t tell them that.”

“This is the center where no one comes. Death can’t affect it. This is the strategy: silence, and to strike from this place where nothing can come. This virtue. This anger that sustains you. You know your limits. You cherish no illusions. But I’m here.”

“Welcome in,” she said, staring through it. “Now there are two of us. You want a fight? I’ll give you one.”

“Yes,” it said. “I know. But I would win. I have, before. I destroyed that version of you. It was no longer whole.”

“Fine,” she said: There was a knot in her throat that made talking painful. “That was kind of you.”

“Humor,” it said.

“Absolutely.”

“I want your help,” it said.

She looked at it, a sudden shortening of focus, a centering of hate. “ Doyou?”

“You don’t fully understand,” it said, “what these versions are. They’re alive.”

“That one was?” She moved her eyes where Paul had lain, unconscious on the floor. “You killedit? You want my help?”

“He. That version died in his sleep, without pain. He can die—infinitely often. No,” the doppelganger said, lifting her hand. “That wasn’t a threat. I’m explaining what you are. You have a certain integrity, right now. You’re unique, much more flexible than the template I have in storage. You’ve learned. That version of Paul I twice destroyed—never waked after the wreck. The one I sent you to keep you content, that one was from the same template; and it came to consciousness with you all settled in your state. You brought it—gently up to date; it’s more stable as a consequence. Paul, you know, doesn’t like shocks. He relies on you in these circumstances. He needs your flexibility. Your expertise as spacers, greater than his own. Oh, I know—you’re lost. That’s why the first Paul ran off. He leaned on you and you didn’t provide the prop. So he leaned on himself. And he ran.”

“O my God.”

“No, indeed you didn’t get the same Paul back. And you did, in one important sense. The one you have now is healthier. He still belongs to you. The other one, the one that ran, has diverged—considerably. You thanked me for destroying your damaged selves. But Paul’s first copy was damaged too. It’s not a Paul you’d understand. And a stray version of Rafe exists, that’s gone way off. Rafe has his weaknesses. That’s why I’m talking to you. The stable one. The one with the solid core. The only one it hasn’t got. Yet.”

“It. What— it?”

“This ship has a lot of passengers. One of them.”

“And who are you?”

“Kepta. Kepta’s what to call me.”

“You’re in charge?”

“Captain would be close. I’m going to copy you again. It’s the best defense. That there’ll be one version of you neither naive nor—if things go wrong—corrupt. It will hurt, Jillan. It’s not my choice. It’s just your nature.”

It was gone.

And the pain began.

“</> knows,” said = < + > = = <-> = =. “</> knows <>’re disarranged.”

<> was not surprised at the Cannibal’s report. <> stayed quiet now, digesting what <> had learned, while in the lab, with another part of <>’s mind, <> was quite busy.

“Move us,” said <^>, anxiously, from elsewhere in the ship. <^> feared the Cannibal and stayed far away. “Move us from this place. Others of this species may come.”

“No,” <> said, “not yet.”

<^> raged and wept, fearful for <^>self. <^> was very old, and very fond of <^>self, besides being slightly mad, and <^> skulked off, with |||000||| slinking after in growing despair.

“</> knows what <> have done,” <^> said again, turning back.

“</> knows,” said another, unexpected voice. It was </>self, </> had ventured to the limits of </>’s security, that line across which <> did not go. This intrusion into <>’s affairs was purest insolence, demonstrating </>’s strength; but demonstrating impotence as well: </> had met a limit </> could not pass.

But </> brought a companion who had no such disabilities. <> saw this. “Paul,” <> addressed Paul One, which hung back, twined with crippled Rafe-mind, the one that </> had worn. Paul had acquired new pieces, shadow-limbs, extensions in the dark, at least three arms, maybe four; and legs as well.

The Paul-mind said something, garbled like itself. “. ... fear,” came out. “jillan rafe bastard want come now ...”

“Not very articulate,” <> said. The template <> was making was complete. With deliberation <> released the subject, dismissed her out of reach and fronted </>’s vexation with insouciance.

Gentle, human arms were about her, light shone above her, and for a moment Jillan believed in both implicitly, having no wish to move at all, only to be, and not to think.

“Jillan,” Paul’s voice called. His fingers touched her face, brushed back a stubborn lock of hair—he often did that small thing, of mornings, to wake her up. Tears leaked between her lashes; but the pain was gone, just gone, as if it had never been, hard even to remember now. She opened her eyes and blinked at Paul’s face, at two of Rafe’s, one of the twins like Paul, dimmed by the lights; the other, Rafe’s living self.

Her men, she thought, exhausted. All three of them safe, here among Lindy’s pathetic pieces. She sat up and held to Paul’s shoulder, hung on it like a drifter to a hold in null, and gazed at both her brothers, the living and the one neither live nor dead.

“You all right?” Rafe asked, a rusty, painful sound.

“What happened to your voice?”

“Had a bad while,” he said. “Over now. I’m not hurt. You?”