(At the thought of integration, Jared felt an intense pang of loneliness. When his new orders came through, Jared's integration with the 2nd Platoon was switched off. The constant low-level hum of thought and emotion from his platoon mates was cavernous in its absence. If he had not been able to draw on his first isolated experiences of consciousness, he might have gone a little mad the moment he realized he could not sense his platoon anymore. As it was, Jared had spent most of the intervening day in a solid depression. It was an amputation, bloody and raw, and only the knowledge it was likely only temporary made it bearable.)

Jared realized with a growing sense of unease just how much of his life had been dictated, chosen, ordered and commanded. He realized how ill-prepared he was to make the choice Cainen had offered him. His immediate inclination was to say yes, that he wanted to go on: to learn more about Charles Boutin, the man he was supposed to be, and to become him, in some way. But he didn't know if it was something he really wanted, or merely something that was expected of him. Jared felt resentment, not at the Colonial Union or the Special Forces, but at Cainen—for putting him in a position to question himself and his choices, or lack thereof.

"What would you do?" Jared asked Cainen.

"I'm not you," Cainen said, and refused to speak any more about it. Wilson was likewise notably unhelpful. Both went about their work in the lab while Jared thought, staring into the three representations of consciousness that were all him, in one way or another.

"I've made a choice," Jared said, more than two hours later. "I want to go on."

"Can you tell me why?" Cainen said.

"Because I want to know more about all of this," Jared said. He motioned to the image of the third consciousness. "You tell me that I'm changing. I'm becoming someone else. I believe that. But I still feel like me. I think I'll still be me, no matter what happens. And I want to know."

Jared pointed to Cainen. "You say we Special Forces are slaves. You're right. I can't argue that. But we were also told that we are the only humans born with a purpose: To keep other humans safe. I wasn't given a choice for that purpose before, but I choose it now. I choose this."

"You choose to be a slave," Cainen said.

"No," Jared said. "I stopped being a slave when I made this choice."

"But you're choosing the path those who made you a slave would have you follow," Cainen said.

"It's my choice," Jared said. "If Boutin wants to harm us, I want to stop him."

"That means you might become like him," Wilson said.

"I was supposed to be him," Jared said. "Being like him still leaves room to be me."

"So this is your choice," Cainen said.

"It is," Jared said.

"Well, thank Christ," Wilson said, clearly relieved. Cainen also appeared to relax.

Jared looked at the two of them strangely. "I don't understand," he said to Cainen.

"We were ordered to bring out as much of Charles Boutin in you as possible," Cainen said. "If you had said no, and we refused to follow our orders, it probably would have been a death sentence for me. I'm a prisoner of war, Private. The only reason I'm allowed what little freedom I have is because I've allowed myself to be useful. The moment I stop being useful is the moment the CDF withdraws the medicine that keeps me alive. Or they decide to kill me in some other way. Lieutenant Wilson here is not likely to be shot for disobeying the order, but from what I understand CDF prisons aren't very nice places to be."

"Insubordinates check in, but they don't check out," Wilson said.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Jared said.

"Because then it wouldn't have been a fair choice for you," Wilson said.

"We decided between us that we would offer you this choice and accept the consequences," Cainen said. "Once we made our own choice on the matter, we wanted to be sure you had the same freedom we did in making your choice."

"So thank you for choosing to go on," Wilson said. "I nearly crapped myself waiting for you to make up your damn mind."

"Sorry," Jared said.

"Think on it no more," Wilson said, "because now you have another choice to make."

"We've come up with two options we think will spark a larger cascade of memories from your Boutin consciousness," Cainen said. "The first is a variation of the consciousness transfer protocol used to put Boutin in your brain in the first place. We can cycle the protocol again and embed the consciousness a second time. Now that your brain is more mature, there's an excellent chance more of the consciousness would take—indeed, that it could all take. But there are some serious possible consequences."

"Like what?" Jared asked.

"Like that your consciousness would be entirely wiped out as the new one comes in," Wilson said.

"Ah," Jared said.

"You can see how it's problematic," Cainen said.

"I don't think I want to do that one," Jared said.

"We didn't think so," Cainen said. "In which case, we have a rather less invasive plan B."

"Which is?" Jared said.

"A trip down memory lane," Wilson said. "Jellybeans were only the beginning."

Colonel James Robbins looked up at Phoenix, hovering over him in the sky. Here I am again, he thought.

General Szilard noticed Robbins' discomfort. "You don't really like the general's mess, do you, Colonel?" he asked, and jammed more steak in his mouth. "I hate it," Robbins said, before he quite knew what was coming out of his mouth. "Sir," he added, quickly.

"Can't say that I blame you," Szilard said, around the beef. "The whole thing of barring non-generals from eating here is six kinds of stupid. How's your water, by the way?"

Robbins glanced down at the sweating glass in front of him. "Delightfully refreshing, sir," he said.

Szilard motioned with his fork to encompass the entire general's mess. "This is our fault, you know," he said. "The Special Forces, I mean."

"How so?" asked Robbins.

"Special Forces generals would bring anyone in their command structure in here—not just officers, but their enlisted too. Because outside of combat situations, no one in Special Forces really gives a shit about rank. So you had all these Special Forces troops in here, eating the nice steaks and ogling Phoenix overhead. It got on the other generals' nerves—not just that there were enlisted in here, but that they were Ghost Brigade enlisted. This was in the early days, when the idea of soldiers less than a year old gave you realborn the creeps."

"It still does," Robbins said. "Sometimes."

"Yeah, I know," Szilard said. "But you people hide it better now. Anyway, after a while the realborn generals let it be known that this was their own playpen. And now all anyone else gets in here is one of those delightfully refreshing glasses of water you've got there, Colonel. So on behalf of the Special Forces, I apologize to you for the inconvenience."

"Thank you, General," Robbins said. "I'm not hungry anyway."

"Good for you," Szilard said, and ate some more of his steak. Colonel Robbins eyed the general's meal. In fact, he was hungry, but it wouldn't have been politic to note it. Robbins made a mental note for the next time he was summoned to a meeting in the general's mess: Eat something first.

Szilard swallowed his steak and turned his attention back to Robbins. "Colonel, have you heard of the Esto system? Don't look it up, just tell me if you know it."

"I'm not aware of it," Robbins said.

"How about Krana? Mauna Kea? Sheffield?"

"I know the Mauna Kea on Earth," Robbin said. "But I assume that's not the one you're talking about."

"It's not." Szilard motioned again with his fork, waving it to indicate some point past the eastern limb of Phoenix. "Mauna Kea system is that way, just short of Phoenix's Skip Drive horizon. New colony there."