“I know,” he said. There was nothing else to say to that, nothing at all.

“You’ve always doubted your importance. Your grandmother was born in a lab and had a number tattooed on her hand. You rarely saw your mother. She supported you by mine work. You’re not sure whether that was love or duty. She never said. She died and left you a station share, which gave you the ability to live in some comfort. But your species needs attachments of stronger sort. Rafe was one. And Jillan. They were your shelter in youth. They ran wild on the docks. You envied them—not their freedom, but their unity. And they made you a part of them. Adult needs grew into that. For you—there were no other possibilities.”

“Why don’t we try for that copy you need?”

“No. Go on thinking on that point. It’s a crucial one for you. There’s ambiguity there. You went into a very dangerous situation; mining, which you hate; in a very unsafe ship; left all your comforts; exchanged all values you had for this one return, that you give and get love from both of them. That seems an important point. Doesn’t it?”

He drew a deep breath, feeling naked in more ways than physically. “Yes,” he said.

“Vulnerability is upsetting to you.”

“To anyone.”

“Upset is itself a vulnerability.”

“Is there some point to this?”

“Oh, yes. There is. I fell victim to that aspect of you myself. Your simulacra were all painful to me. And I avoided that upset. I drew an unwarranted conclusion, that you would not adapt. Rafe did warn me. Your survival should have warned me. Your runaway copy evaded every danger but one. That’s quite a defense you have.”

“Sure.”

“There is aggression in you. There is—what you would call that dark side; secrets you keep partitioned. So you understand a little of what I do when I occupy a mind. I partition off those parts of me that would be incompatible. But you don’t have as fine a control on that partitioning; Jillan useshers; Rafe operates in simplicity: his secrets are all little ones, excepting one. Excepting one. But you—You deliberately disorganize yourself, destroying connections—like now, like this mind’s trying to do, and I won’t press it. Remember that one thing. Remember what I told you was important to remember. That’s how the first Paul Gaines went wrong.”

“What—went wrong?”

“Mad. From your viewpoint, he’s quite mad. Pull out everything you hold behind those barriers and you’ll know in what respect. I know you, Paul. There’s no aspect of this mind I haven’t been through, nothing I haven’t handled. I’ve killed several of you doing it, at some cost to me.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I want you to deal with Paul One. It’s very likely that you’re the only one that can both reach and affect him.”

“You can’t?” Wit started working again, and seized on that hint of limitation. Learn something—bring it back to them—

—prove myself—The truth of it jarred.

“I’ll be—otherwise occupied. I know that I will be. And if you break down, Paul—if you do break down, it’s very likely I’ll have to wipe the templates out. That’s death. For Rafe, and you, and Jillan. Real death, not a power-down. There are several worse things that could happen. Remote, but possible.”

“What’s that?”

“One, that you’d become his. The other Paul’s. That he’d have all of you, and the templates, to do with as he pleases. That could happen—if I should go under. And it’s possible I could. It’s always possible. Believe me, destroying the templates against that event—would be charity.”

He clenched hands that felt cold in the absence of all cold, swallowed against a knot that was not there. “And if you’re lying, all the way—what then, Kepta?

“You might take the chance and assume that I’m lying. But you’ve seen that first version of yourself. Did you like it? Did it look healthy?”

“No,” he said. “No.”

“Do you want to fight this thing? Or had you rather go now? Which will you choose? To get back, to go to sleep? I can arrange that. Or I can tell you what you have to do, to avoid catastrophe.”

“What’s that?” he asked. It did not seem himself asking, as if he watched from some great distance where he had gone for safety. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Understand it. Understand what that first version, what every version of you has behind every partition of its mind. Understand yourself.If there’s one weakness it will find it; if there’s one doubt, it’s going to discover it. Think of those partitioned things. Think through all your mind until it has no seams, no joining-places, no contradictions at all. Did you know you enjoy giving pain? That you fear the dark? Do you know that Rafe uses you, even while he loves you? That you want Jillan to be less than she is? That you want to be feared?”

“That’s a lie.”

“Not a lie. It’s the obverse, the wellspring of all the strengths you have. You come from a place, from Fargone; I remember. Hundreds of thousands of your kind are crowded together there. You exist in stress and refrain from every hostile thought and violence. You partition off these things. You live by active denial of them. That other Paul, that you ran—has no partitions. The moment you meet him—neither will you.”

He stared into eyes the like of his, feeling ice lodged in his gut.

“Let’s talk about sex, Paul.”

“What about it?”

“Defensive,” Kepta said. “You wish most of all you had clothes. That really bothers you.”

“I haven’t got the urge. Haven’t. Won’t.” He felt a sweat break out that could not possibly exist. “I don’t think I’m likely to.”

“Rafe feels these reactions, but generalized and rarely in this place. Worry—fear—kinship—these suppress the drive.”

“So does dying.”

“Does it?” Kepta asked.

He stared at Kepta, recalling what it knew, what it remembered.

“The clothes,” Kepta said, “the clothes. An inconvenience in the templates, but a very important protection to you. Jillan’s bothered least. Rafe—inconvenienced. You’re terrified. Aren’t you, Paul?”

He said nothing, only looked it in the eyes.

“Physiology betrays you,” Kepta said. “This body can react—in many ways. It will. You fear it will ... and Rafe—has stopped being ... brother...”

“Damn you.”

“... become— rival, in this dark aspect. In several senses. So has she.”

“They’re better,” he said at last, between the two of them. “They’re better than I am. Aren’t they?”

“I can’t judge.”

“Can’t you?”

“I won’t be there. You will. In this—it’s not better, Paul. It’s what survives.”

“It can’t all rest on me. Dammit, give me—give me more than that. ...”

Kepta rose, straightened, unfolding in midair so that he stood. He held out his hand. “I can’t. Take my hand. I’ll send you back to familiar referents ... after I’ve made a copy. This is a valuable point with you, this moment. If you disintegrate hereafter, I might try—perhaps once more with you. Only perhaps. I won’t risk the ship. You mustn’t depend on anything but yourself. Remember what I told you is important.”

He thought back, and another thought came, far colder. “You know my mind inside and out. More than lying—isn’t it possible you know how to manipulate us? You know just what strings to pull, and when. You’re not learning things from this. You’re movingus—to do the things you want.”

Kepta’s brows lifted slowly; as slowly, the mouth assumed a grudging smile. “Of all of you—you’re the first to challenge me on that. Of course I am. I see why the others value you, Paul Gaines. You do have surprises. And now you have a choice. Your hand ... if you will.”

He held it out, repulsed as Kepta’s closed on his in a dry, temperatureless grip. Kepta’s clasp was strong, like living metal, perilous in its potentiality.

“Don’t close down,” he said. “Let go!”—as the air around them dissolved and whirled in a blur of his own glowing limbs. “No!”he cried.