Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hades starting to get up from his seat. I aimed the piton gun at him. "Don't even think about it," I said. Then I turned back to the image of Smythe: "Send him on a cargo rocket," I said. "High-powered acceleration for the first hour. He doesn't need life support, right? And he can pull lots of gees, I'm sure."

"That will cost…"

"A whole heck of a lot less than if I blow up this moonbus and take out half of High Eden."

"I need to get authorization."

"Don't do it!" I swung around. Hades was shouting. "Gabe, do you hear me? I'm ordering you not to do that!"

Gabe sounded flustered, but he said, "I'll see what I can manage."

"Damn it, Gabe!" shouted Hades. "I'm the senior Immortex official on the moon, and I'm telling you not to do this."

"Shut up," I said to Hades.

"No," said Gabe. "No, it's all right, Jake. I'm sorry, Brian — really, I am. But I can't take orders from you just now. We've got advisors from Earth on the line, as you can imagine, and I'm tied into various resources. And they all say the same thing on this point. A hosta— a detainee's orders are not to be followed, no matter how senior they are, since the orders are obviously given under duress. You're going to have to trust my judgment."

"Damn it, Smythe," said Hades. "You're fired!"

"Once I've gotten you out of this mess, sir, if you still want to do that, you'll be able to. But right now, you simply aren't in a position to fire anyone. Mr. Sullivan — Jake — I'll do what I can. But I'll need time."

"I've never been a patient man," I said. "Maybe that's related to living under a death sentence, and I haven't quite gotten used to my change of circumstances. In any event, I don't expect to wait. A cargo rocket can fly here in twelve hours; I give you another twelve to take care of logistics, and getting the other me to a rocket-launch site. But that's all. If I'm not talking face-to-face to the android that's usurped me in twenty-four hours, people will begin to die."

Smythe blew out air. "Jake, you know I'm a psychologist, and, well, I've been reviewing your file. This isn't you. This isn't like you at all."

"This is the new me," I said. "Isn't that the whole point? There's a new Jake Sullivan."

"Jake, I see a note here that you recently had brain surgery — nanosurgery, to be sure, but…"

"Yes. So?"

"And you were having trouble balancing neurotransmitter levels after that. Are you still taking the Toraplaxin? Because if you're not, we can—"

"Right. Like I'd take any pills you'd offer."

"Jake, you've got a chemical imbal—"

I slammed my fist against the OFF switch.

Judge Herrington called it a day, and Karen and I went home. I was still seething from the way Lopez had attacked Karen on the stand. That Karen wasn't too upset herself helped, but not enough. Although my plastiskin couldn't turn different shades, I felt livid — and the feeling wasn't dissipating on its own.

It used to be that if I was angry, I'd walk it off. I'd go outside, and stroll around the block a couple of times. But now I could walk for miles — a unit I only used figuratively, but that Karen actually had a feeling for — without it in the slightest changing my mood. Likewise, when I was depressed, I used to rip open a bag of potato chips and a thing of dip, and stuff my face. Or, if I was really feeling like I couldn't face the day anymore, crawl back into bed and have a nap. And, of course, nothing was better for relaxing than a nice cold Sullivan's Select.

But now I couldn't eat. I couldn't drink. I couldn't sleep. There were no easy ways to modify my moods.

And I did still have moods. In fact, I remember reading once that "mood" was one of the definitions of human consciousness: a feeling, a tone, a flavor — pick your metaphor — associated with one's current self-awareness.

But now I was wicked pissed — "wicked pissed," that's what one of my friends liked to say whenever he was angry: he liked the sound of it. And it certainly had enough harshness associated with it to do justice to my feelings.

So, what was I supposed to do? Maybe I should learn meditation — after all, there are supposed to be time-honored techniques for achieving inner peace without recourse to chemical stimulants.

Except, of course, everything that affects our feelings, at least in our biological instantiation, is a chemical stimulant: ciopamine, acetylcholine, serotonin, testosterone. But if you become an electrical machine instead of a chemical one, how do you mimic the effects of those substances? We were the first generation of transferred consciousnesses; there were still bugs to be worked out.

It was raining outside, a cold relentless rain. But that isn't going to have an effect on me; I'd only be aware of the coolness as an abstract datum, and the rain would just roll off. I went out the front door and started down the walkway that led to the street.

The sound of fat drops hitting my head beat out an irritating tattoo. Of course, no one else was walking in our neighborhood, although a few cars did pass by. There were earthworms out on the sidewalk. I remembered their distinctive smell from my childhood — funny how little walking in the rain we do as we get older — but my new olfactory sensors weren't response to that particular molecular key.

I continued along, trying to get some perspective on what had happened, trying to rein in my anger. There had to be some way to get rid of it. Think happy thoughts: isn't that what you're supposed to do? I thought about an old Frantics comedy routine I usually enjoyed, and about naked women, and about the perfect crack of the bat when you hit the ball just right, and—

And the anger was gone.

Gone.

Like I'd thrown a switch. Somehow, I'd dismissed the bad reelings. Astonishing. I wondered what thought, what mental configuration, had produced this effect, and whether I could possibly ever reproduce it again.

As I continued to walk along, my stride was the same as before — perfect, measured.

But I felt as though there was a spring in my step — metaphorically, beyond the shock-absorbing coils in my legs.

Still, if there was some combination that could turn off anger at will, was there another that could turn on happiness, turn off sadness, turn on giddiness, turn off…

The thought hit like a fist.

Turn off love.

Not that I wanted to turn off my feelings for Karen — not at all! But somewhere, in the patterns that had been copied from the old me, there were still feelings for Rebecca, and they still hurt because she didn't reciprocate them.

If only I could find the switch to shut off those emotions, to put an end to that pain.

If only.

The rain continued to fall.