"We should be heading out," I said.

"What kind of son leaves a disabled father behind to go to the moon?"

"I didn't leave him. I'm here."

She was looking at me indirectly: she was facing the mirror above the bureau, and conversing with my reflection in it "This is just like what you — the real you — do with Clamhead when you're out of town. You have the damned robo-kitchen feed her.

And now, here you come, a walking, talking robokitchen, here in place of the real you, doing the duties the real you should be doing."

"Mom, please…"

She shook her head at the reflection of me. "You don't have to come here again."

"For Christ's sake, Mom, aren't you happy for me? I'm no longer at risk — don't you see? What happened to Dad isn't going to happen to me."

"Nothing has changed," said my mother. "Nothing has changed for the real you. My boy still has that thing in his head, that AVM; my son is still at risk."

"I—"

"Go away," she said.

"What about visiting Dad?"

"Hannah will take me."

"But—"

"Go away," my mother said. "And don't come back."

"Ladies and gentlemen," said a voice over the moonbus intercom, "as you can see on the monitors, we're about to pass around onto the far side of the moon. So, please do take a moment to look out the windows and enjoy your last sight of the Earth; it won't be visible at all from your new home."

I turned and stared at the crescent planet, beautiful and blue. It had been an image I'd known all my life, but when Karen and the rest of these old folks had been children, no one had yet seen the Earth like this.

Karen was sitting next to me at the moment; Quentin Ashburn, my old seatmate from back on the spaceplane, was off chatting with the moonbus pilot about their shared pride and joy. Karen had been born in 1960, and it wasn't until December 1968 that Apollo VIII got far enough away from the home world to take a photograph of the whole thing. Of course, I wouldn't normally remember a date like December 1968, but everyone knew that humans first landed on the moon in 1969, and I knew that Apollo VIII — the first manned spaceship to leave Earth orbit — had gone there over Christmas the year before; my Sunday School teacher had once played a staticky audio of one of those astronauts reading from Genesis to commemorate that fact.

Now, though, both Karen and I were seeing for the last time the planet that gave birth to us, and to every one of our ancestors. Well, no, of course, that wasn't quite true.

Life had originated only once in the solar system — but on Mars, not Earth; it had been seeded on the third planet from the fourth some four billion years ago, transferred on meteorites. And although Earth, less than 400,000 kilometers away, would be forever invisible from Lunar Farside, Mars — easy to spot, brilliant with the color of blood, of life — would frequently be visible in the night sky from High Eden, even though it was often a thousand times farther away than was Earth.

I watched as the nightside part of Earth — lenticular in this perspective, like a cat's black pupil abutting the blue crescent of the dayside — kissed the gray lunar horizon.

Ah, well. One thing I wouldn't be missing was Earth's gravity, the little stab of pain each time I put weight on my left foot.

But what people would I miss? My mother, certainly — although, of course, she'd have the new him, the durable him, for company. And I'd miss some of my friends — though, now that I thought about it, not as many as I would have supposed; I'd apparently already come to terms with never having any contact with most of them again, even though, with so many of them, the last words I'd said to them or they'd said to me had doubtless been, "See you." Christ, I wondered what my friends would make of the new me. I wondered what…

Yes, yes, there was one friend I'd miss. One very special friend.

I looked at the Earth, looked at Rebecca.

More of the planet was below the horizon than above it now, and the moonbus continued to speed along.

I tried to make out what part of the globe was facing me — but it was impossible to tell with all those clouds. So much hidden, even before one got to the surface of things.

I looked over at Karen Bessarian, who was staring out the little window next to our row of seats. Her deeply lined cheek was wet. "You're going to miss it," I said to her.

She nodded. "Aren't you?"

"Not the planet, no," I said. Mostly one person there.

All of the unilluminated part of the globe was below the horizon now; only a small blue segment was visible. For a second, I thought I was seeing the brilliant whiteness of the north pole — it had certainly stood out from Low Earth Orbit, even if, as Karen had said, it was much reduced in size from when she had been a girl. But, of course, the orientation was all wrong: we were flying parallel to, and not far south of, the lunar equator, so Earth was lying on its side, with its north-south axis running horizontally. Both poles were now well below the horizon.

"Going…" It was Karen, next to me, speaking softly.

Earth was fiercely bright against the black sky; if the moon had an atmosphere, Earthsets — only visible from a moving vehicle, since at all locations on nearside, the Earth hung motionless in the sky — would have been spectacular. Even though I was color-blind, and understood that I'd been missing out on some aspects of the spectacle others saw, I'd still always enjoyed sunsets.

"Going…" said Karen again. There was only a tiny bead of blue still visible.

"Gone."

And it was, totally and completely. Everyone I'd ever known, every place I'd ever been.

My mother.

My father.

Rebecca.

Out of sight.

Out of mind.

The moonbus sped on.

After the disastrous visit to my mother's house, I returned home. Clamhead continued to stare out the window, waiting for someone else.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd cried — and now I was utterly incapable of it.

But I wanted to. Crying was cathartic; it got things out of your system.

My system. My fucking system.

I lay down on my bed — not because I was tired; I was never tired anymore — but because that had always been my habit when thinking. I looked up at the ceiling. The old me might have popped a pill at this point. But the new me couldn't do that.

Of course, I could get in my car and drive up to Immortex's offices in Markham.

Perhaps Dr. Porter could do something, adjust some bloody — some bloodless — potentiometer, but…

But there was that damned asking-for-help thing again: stupid, stubborn, but part of who I am, and the last thing I wanted to do right now was behave out of character, lest even I begin to think what my mother and my dog and the one and only woman I loved did, that I was some sort of ersatz knockoff, some pale imitation, an impostor, a fake.

Besides, I had an appointment to see Porter tomorrow, anyway. All of us new uploads had to visit him for frequent checkups and tuneups, and—

Karen.

Karen had to do that, too.

Of course, she might have gone home to Detroit, but how practical was commuting internationally every few days? No, no, Karen was a sensible woman. She'd almost certainly be staying here in Toronto.

Where exactly, though?

The Fairmont Royal York.

The thought burst into my synthetic head. The place where the sales pitch had been held. Directly opposite the train station.

I looked at my phone. "Phone, call Fairmont Royal York Hotel; audio only."

"Connecting," said the phone.

Another voice came on, female, perky. "Royal York. How may I direct your call?"

"Hello," I said. "Do you have a Karen Bessarian registered?"