Glasshouse

2. Experiment

WELCOME to the Invisible Republic.

The Invisible Republic is one of the legacy polities that emerged from the splinters of the Republic of Is, in the wake of the series of censorship wars that raged five to ten gigaseconds ago. During the wars, the internetwork of longjump T-gates that wove the subnets of the hyperpower together was shattered, leaving behind sparsely connected nets, their borders filtered through firewalled assembler gates guarded by ferocious mercenaries. Incomers were subjected to forced disassembly and scanned for subversive attributes before being rebuilt and allowed across the frontiers. Battles raged across the airless cryogenic wastes that housed the longjump nodes carrying traffic between warring polities, while the redactive worms released by the Censor factions lurked in the firmware of every A-gate they could contaminate, their viral payload mercilessly deleting all knowledge of the underlying cause of the conflict from fleeing refugees as they passed through the gates.

Like almost all human polities since the Acceleration, the Republic of Is relied heavily on A-gates for manufacturing, routing, switching, filtering, and the other essentials of any network civilization. The ability of nanoassembler arrays to deconstruct and replicate artifacts and organisms from raw atomic feedstock made them virtually indispensable—not merely for manufacturing and medical purposes, but for virtual transport (it's easier to simultaneously cram a hundred upload templates through a T-gate than a hundred physical bodies) and molecular firewalling. Even when war exposed them to subversion by the worms of censorship, nobody wanted to do without the A-gates—to grow old and decrepit, or succumb to injury, seemed worse than the risk of memory corruption. The paranoid few who refused to pass through the verminous gates dropped away, dying of old age or cumulative accidental damage; meanwhile, those of us who still used them can no longer be certain of whatever it was that the worm payloads were designed to hide in the first place. Or even who the Censors were.

But the stress of the censorship caused people to distrust all gates that they didn't control themselves. You can't censor data or mass flowing through a T-gate, which is simply a wormhole of twisted space-time connecting two distant points. So even short-range traffic switched to T-gates, while new mass assemblies became scarce because of generalized distrust of the Censored A-gates. There was an economic crash, then a splintering of communications, and entire T-gate networks—networks with high degrees of internal connectivity, not necessarily spatial proximity—began to disconnect from the wider net. Is became Was, and what was once a myriad of public malls with open topologies sprouted fearsome armed checkpoints, frontier posts between firewalled virtual republics.

That was then, and this is now. The Invisible Republic was one of the first successor states to form. They built an intranetwork of T-gates and fiercely defended them from the outside until the first generation of fresh A-gates, bootstrapped painfully all the way from hand-lithographed quantum dot arrays, became available. The Invisibles started out as a group of academic institutions that set up a distributed trust system early in the censorship; they still retain their military-academic roots. The Scholastium views knowledge as power and seeks to restore the data lost during successive dark ages—although whether it is really a good idea to uncover the cause of the censorship is a matter of hot debate. Just about everyone lost parts of their lives during the war, and tens of billions more died completely: Re-creating the preconditions for the worst holocaust since the twenty-third century is not uncontroversial.

Ironically, the Invisible Republic is now the place where many people come in order to forget their pasts. We who remain human (while relying on A-gate redaction to save our bodies from senescence) sooner or later need to learn to forget. Time is a corrosive fluid, dissolving motivation, destroying novelty, and leaching the joy from life. But forgetting is a fraught process, one that is prone to transcription errors and personality flaws. Delete the wrong pattern, and you can end up becoming someone else. Memories exhibit dependencies, and their management is one of the highest medical art forms. Hence the high status and vast resources of the surgeon-confessors, into whose hands my earlier self delivered me. The surgeon-confessors learned their skills by forensic analysis of the damage done to the victims of the censorship wars. And thus, yesterday's high crime leads to today's medical treatment.

A few diurns—almost half a tenday—after my little chat with Piccolo– 47, I am back in the recovery club, nursing a drink and enjoying the mild hallucinations it brings on in conjunction with the mood music the venue plays for me. It's been voted a hot day, and most of the party animals are out in the courtyard, where they've grown a swimming pool. I've been studying, trying to absorb what I can of the constitution and jurisprudential traditions of the Invisible Republic, but it's hard work, so I decided to come here to unwind. I've left my sword and dueler's sash back home. Instead, I'm wearing black leggings and a loose top festooned with a Menger sponge of empty pockets stitched out of smaller pockets and smaller still, almost down to the limits of visibility—woven in free fall by hordes of tiny otaku spiders, I'm told, their genes programmed by an obsessive-compulsive sartorial topologist. I feel pretty good about myself because my most recent therapist-assignee, Lute-629,says I'm making good progress. Which is probably why I'm not sufficiently on guard.

I'm sitting alone at a table minding my own business when, without any kind of warning, two hands clap themselves over my eyes. I startle and try to stand up, tensing in the first instinctive move to throw up a blocking forearm, but another pair of hands is already pressing down on my shoulders. I realize who it is only just in time to avoid punching her in the face. "Hello, stranger," she breathes in my ear, apparently unaware of how close I came to striking her.

"Hey." In one dizzy moment I smell her skin against the side of my cheek as my heart tries to lurch out of my chest, and I break out in a cold sweat. I reach up carefully to stroke the side of her face. I'm about to suggest she shouldn't sneak up on me, but I can visualize her smiling, and something makes me take a more friendly tone. "I was wondering if I'd see you here."

"Happens." The hands vanish from my eyes as she lets go of me. I twist round to see her impish grin. "I'm not disturbing anything important, am I?"

"Oh, hardly. I've just had my fill of studying, and it's time to relax." I grin ruefully. And I would be relaxing if you weren't giving me fight-or-flight attacks!

"Good." She slides into the booth beside me, leans up against my side, and snaps her fingers at the menu. Moments later a long, tall something or other that varies from gold at the top to blue at the bottom arrives in a glass of flash-frozen ice that steams slightly in the humid air. I can see horse-head ripples in the mist, blue steam-trails of self-similarity. "I'm never sure whether it's polite to ask people if they want to socialize—the conventions are too different from what I'm used to."

"Oh, I'm easy." I finish my own drink and let the table reabsorb my glass. "Actually, I was thinking about a meal. Are you by any chance hungry?"

"I could be." She chews her lower lip and looks at me pensively. "You said you were hoping to see me."

"Yes. I was wondering about the, uh, greeter thing. Who runs it, and whether they need any volunteers."

She blinks and looks me up and down. "You think you're sufficiently in control? You want to volunteer to—remarkable!" One of my external triggers twitches, telling me that she's accessing my public metadata, the numinous cloud of medical notes that follow us all around like a swarm of phantom bees, ready to sting us into submission at the first sign of undirected aggression. "You've made really good progress!"

"I don't want to be a patient forever." I probably sound a bit defensive. Maybe she doesn't realize she's rubbed me up the wrong way, but I really don't like being patronized.

"Do you know what you're going to do when your control metrics are within citizenship bounds?" she asks.

"No idea." I glance at the menu. "Hey, I'll have one of whatever she's drinking," I tell the table.

"Why not?" She sounds innocently curious. Maybe that's why I decide to tell her the unembellished truth.

"I don't know much about who I am. I mean, whoever I was before, he put me in for a maximum wash, didn't he? I don't remember what my career was, what I used to do, even what I was interested in. Tabula rasa, that's me."

"Oh my." My drink emerges from the table. She looks as if she doesn't know whether to believe me or not. "Do you have a family? Any friends?"

"I'm not sure," I admit. Which is a white lie. I have some very vague memories of growing up, some of them vivid in a stereotyped way that suggests crude enhancement during a previous memory wash—memories I'd wanted to preserve at all costs, two proud mothers watching my early steps across a black sandy beach . . . and I have a strong but baseless conviction that I've had long-term partners, at least a gigasecond of domesticity. And there are faint memories of coworkers, phantoms of former Cats. But try as I might, I can't put a face to any of them, and that's a cruel realization to confront. "I have some fragments, but I've got a feeling that before my memory surgery I was pretty solitary. Anorganization person, a node in a big machine. Can't remember what kind of machine, though." Fresh-spilled blood bubbling and fizzing in vacuum. Liar.

"That's so sad," she says.

"What about you?" I ask. "Before you were an ice ghoul . . . ?"

"Oh yes! I grew up in a troupe, I had lots of brothers and sisters and parents. We were primate fundamentalists, you know? It's kind of embarrassing. But I still hear from some of the cousins now and then—we exchange insights once in a while." She smiles wistfully. "When I was a ghoul, it was one of the few things that reminded me I had an alien side."

"But did you, when you were a ghoul, did you have . . . ?"

Her face freezes over: "No, I didn't." I look away, embarrassed for her. Why did I imagine I was the only liar at the table?

"About that food idea," I say, hastily changing the subject, "I'm still trying out some of the eateries around here. I mean, getting to know what's good and figuring out who hangs out where. I was thinking about going for a meal and maybe seeing if a few acquaintances are around afterward, Linn and Vhora. Do you know them? They're in rehab, too, only they've been out a bit longer than us. Linn's doing craft therapy, ad hoc environmental patching, while Vhora's learning to play the musette."

"Did you have anywhere in particular in mind to go and eat?" She unfreezes fast once we're off the sensitive subject.

"I was thinking a pavement cafe in the Green Maze that hangs off the back of the Reich Wing looked like a possibility. It's run by a couple of human cooks who design historically inauthentic Indonesian tapas in public. It's strictly recreational, a performance thing: They don't actually expect you to eat their prototypes—not unless you want to." I raise a finger. "If that doesn't interest you, there's a fusion shed, also in the Green Maze, that I cached yesterday. They do a decent pan-fried calzone, only they call it something like a dizer or dozer. And there's always sushi."

Kay nods thoughtfully. "Plausible," she agrees. Then she smiles. "I like the sound of your tapas. Shall we go and see how much we can eat? Then let's meet these friends of yours."

They're not friends so much as nodding acquaintances, but I don't tell her that. Instead, I pay up with a wave at the billpoint, and we head for the back door, out onto the beautiful silvery beach that the rehab club backs on to, then over to a rustic-looking door that conceals the gate to the green maze. Along the way, Kay pulls a pair of batik harem pants and a formally cut black-lace jacket out of her waist pouch, which is an artfully concealed gate opening on a personal storage space. Both of us are barefoot, for although there is a breeze and bright sunlight on our skin, we are fundamentally as deep indoors as it is possible for humans to get, cocooned in a network of carefully insulated habitats floating at intervals of light kiloseconds throughout a broad reach of the big black.

The Green Maze is one of those rectilinear manifolds that was all the fashion about four gigasecs ago, right after the postwar fragmentation bottomed out. The framework consists of green corridors, all straight, all intersecting at ninety-degree angles and held together by a bewildering number of T-gates. Actually, it's a sparse network, so you can go through a doorway on one side of the maze and find yourself on the far side, or several levels up, or even two twists, a hop, and a jump behind the back of your own head. Lots of apartment suites hang off it, including the back entrance to my own, along with an even more startling range of cubist-themed public spaces, entertainment nooks, eateries, resteries, entertainment venues, and a few real formal hedge mazes built in a style several tens of teraseconds older.

Needless to say, nobody knows their way around the Green Maze by memory or dead reckoning—some of the gates move from diurn to diurn—but my netlink knows where I'm going and throws up a firefly for me. It takes us about a third of a kilosec to walk there in companionable silence. I'm still trying to work out whether I can trust Kay, but I'm already sure I like her.

The tapas place is open plan, ancient cast-iron chairs and tables on a grassy deck beneath a dome under a pink sky streaked with clouds of carbon monoxide that scud across a cracked basalt wilderness. The sun is very bright and very small, and if the dome vanished, we'd probably freeze to death before the atmosphere poisoned us. Kay glances at the ornamental archway surrounding the T-gate, overgrowth with ivy, and picks a table close to it. "Anything wrong?" I ask.

"It reminds me of home." She looks as if she's bitten a durian fruit while expecting a mango. "Sorry. I'll try to ignore it."

"I didn't mean to—"

"I know you didn't." A small, wry, smile. "Maybe I didn't erase enough."

"I'm worried that I erased too much," I say before I can stop myself. Then Frita, one of the two proprietor/cook/designers wanders over, and we're lost for a while in praise of his latest creations, and of course we have to sample the fruits of the first production run and make an elaborate business of reviewing them while Erci stands by strumming his mandolin and looking proud.

"Erased too much," Kay prods me.

"Yes." I push my plate away. "I don't know for sure. My old self left me a long, somewhat vague letter. Written and serialized, not an experiential; it was encoded in a way he knew I'd remember how to decrypt, he was very careful about that. Anyway, he hinted about all sorts of dark things. He knew too much, rambled on about how he'd worked for a Power and done bad things until his coworkers forced him into excision and rehab. And it was a thorough job of assisted forgetting they did on me. I mean, for all I know I might be a war criminal or something. I've completely lost over a gigasecond, and the stuff before then is full of holes—I don't remember anything about what my vocation was, or what I did during the censorship, or any friends or family, or anything like that."

"That's awful." Kay rests a slim hand atop each of mine and peers at me across the wreckage of a remarkably good aubergine-and-garlic casserole.

"But that's not all." I glance at her wineglass, sitting empty beside the carafe. "Another refill?"

"My pleasure." She refills my glass and raises it to my lips while taking a sip from her own without releasing my hands. I smile as I swallow, and she smiles back. Maybe there's something to be said for her hexapedal body plan, although I'd be nervous about doing it to myself—she must have had some pretty extensive spinal modifications to coordinate all those limbs with such unconscious grace. "Go on?"

"There are hints." I swallow. "Pretty blatant ones. He warned me to be on my guard against old enemies—the kind who wouldn't be content with a simple duel to the death."

"What are we talking about?" She looks concerned.

"Identity theft, backup corruption." I shrug. "Or . . . I don't know. I mean, I don't remember. Either my old self was totally paranoid, or he was involved in something extremely dirty and opted to take the radical retirement package. If it's the latter, I could be in really deep trouble. I lost so much that I don't know how the sort of people he was involved with behave, or why. I've been doing some reading, history and so on, but that's not the same as being there." I swallow again, my mouth dry, because at this point she might very well stand up and walk out on me and suddenly I realize that I've invested quite a lot of self-esteem in her continued good opinion of me. "I mean, I think he may have been a mercenary, working for one of the Powers."

"That would be bad." She lets go of my hands. "Robin?"

"Yes?"

"Is that why you haven't had a backup since rehab? And why you're always hanging out in public places with your back to the most solid walls?"

"Yes." I've admitted it, and now I don't know why I didn't say it before. "I'm afraid of my past. I want it to stay dead."

She stands up, leans across the table to take my hands and hold my face, then kisses me. After a moment I respond hungrily. Somehow we're standing beside the table and hugging each other—that's a lot of contact with Kay—and I'm laughing with relief as she rubs my back and holds me tight. "It's all right," she soothes, "it's all right. " Well, no it isn't—but she's all right, and suddenly my horizons feel as if they've doubled in size. I'm not in solitary anymore, there's someone I can talk to without feeling as if I might be facing a hostile interrogation. The sense of release is enormous, and far more significant than simple sex.

"Come on," I say, "let's go see Linn and Vhora."

"Sure," she says, partly letting go. "But Robin, isn't it obvious what you need to do?"

"Huh?"

"About your problem." She taps her toe impatiently. "Or haven't the therapists been giving you the hard sell, too?"

"You mean the experiment?" I lead her back into the Green Maze, cueing my netlink for another firefly. "I was going to say no. It sounds crazy. Why would I want to live in a panopticon society for ten or fifty megs?"

"Think about it," she says. "It's a closed community running in a disconnected T-gate manifold. Nobody gets to go in or comes out after it starts running, not until the whole thing terminates. What's more, it's an experimental protocol. It'll be anonymized and randomized, and the volunteers' records will be protected by the Scholastium's Experimental Ethics Service. So—"

Enlightenment dawns. "If anyone is after me, they won't be able to get at me unless they're inside it from the start! And while I'm in it I'll be invisible."

"I knew you'd get it." She squeezes my hand. "Come on, let's find these friends of yours. Do you know if they've been approached, too?"

WE find Linn and Vhora in a forest glade, enjoying an endless summer afternoon. It turns out that they've both been asked if they're willing to participate in the Yourdon study. Linn is wearing an orthohuman female body and is most of the way out of rehab; lately she's been getting interested in the history of fashion—clothing, cosmetics, tattoos, scarification, that sort of thing—and the idea of the study appeals to her. Vhora, in contrast, is wearing something like a kawaii pink-and-baby-blue centaurform mechabody: she's got huge black eyes, eyelashes to match, perfect breasts, and piebald skin covered in Kevlar patches.

"I had a session with Dr. Mavrides," Linn volunteers diffidently. She has long, auburn hair, pale, freckled skin, green eyes, upturned nose, and elven ears: her historical-looking gown covers her from throat to floor. It's a green that matches her eyes. Vhora, in contrast, is naked. Linn leans against Vhora's flank, one arm spread lazily across her back to toy idly with the base of the fluted horn that rises from the center of Vhora's forehead. "It sounds interesting to me."

"Not my cut." Vhora sounds amused, though it's hard to judge. "It's historical. Premorphic, too. Sorry but I don't do ortho anymore, two lifetimes were enough for me."

"Oh, Vhora." Linn sighs, sounding exasperated. She does something with one fingertip near the base of the horn that makes the mecha tense for a moment. "Won't you . . . ?"

"I'm not clear on the historical period in question," I say carefully. To be perfectly truthful, I'd deliberately ignored the detailed pitch Piccolo-47 mailed me until Kay pointed out the advantages of disappearing into a closed polity for a few years, because I was totally uninterested in going to live in a cave and hunt mammoths with a spear, or whatever Yourdon and his coinvestigators have in mind. I don't like being taken for a soft touch, and Piccolo-47's attitude is patronizing at best. Mind you, Piccolo-47 is the sort of self-congratulatory, introspectively obsessed psych professional who'd take any suggestion that their behavior displayed contempt for the clients as projection, rather than treating it as an attempt to work around real social deficiencies. In my experience, the best way to deal with such people is to politely agree with everything they say, then ignore them. Hence my lack of information about the exact nature of the project.

"Well, they're not telling us everything," Linn apologizes. "But I did some digging. Historian Professor Yourdon has a particular interest in a field I know something about, the first postindustrial dark age—that would be from the mid-twentieth to mid-twenty-first centuries, if you're familiar with Urth chronology. He's working with Colonel-Doctor Boateng, who is really a military psychologist specializing in the study of polymorphic societies—caste systems, gender systems, stratification along lines dictated by heredity, astrology, or other characteristics outside the individual's control. He's published a number of reports lately asserting that people in most societies prior to the Interval Monarchies couldn't act as autonomous agents because of social constraints imposed on them without consent, and I suspect the reason the Scholastium funds his research is because it has diplomatic implications."

I feel Kay shiver slightly through my left arm, which is wrapped around her uppermost shoulders. She leans against me more closely, and I lean against the tree trunk behind me in turn. "Like ice ghoul societies," she murmurs.

"Ice ghouls?" asks Vhora.

"They aren't tech—no, what I mean is that they are still developing technologies. They haven't reached the Acceleration yet. No emotional machines, no virtual or self-replicating toolsets. No Exultants, no gates, no ability to restructure their bodies without ingesting poisonous plant extracts or cutting themselves with metal knives." She shudders slightly. "They're prisoners of their own bodies, they grow old and fall apart, and if one of them loses a limb, they can't replace it." She's very unhappy about something, and for a moment I wonder what the ice ghouls she lived with meant to her, that she has to come here to forget.

"Sounds icky," says Linn. "Anyway, that's what Colonel-Doctor Boateng is interested in. Polities where people have no control over who they are."

"How's the experiment meant to work, then?" I ask, puzzling over it.

"Well, I don't know all the details," Linn temporizes. "But what happens . . . well, if you volunteer, they put you through a battery of tests. You're not supposed to go in if you've got close family attachments and friends, by the way; it's strictly for singletons." Kay's grasp tightens around me for a moment. "Anyway, they back you up and your copy wakes up inside.

"What they've prepared for the experiment is a complete polity—the briefing says there are over a hundred million cubic meters of accommodation space and a complete shortjump network inside. It's not totally uncivilized, like a raw planetary biome or anything. There are a couple of catches, though. There are no free assemblers, you can't simply request any structure you want. If you need food or clothing or tools or whatever, you're supposed to use these special restricted fabricators that'll only give you what you're entitled to within the experiment. They run a money system and provide work, so you have to work and pay for what you consume; it's intended to emulate a pre-Acceleration scarcity economy. Not too scarce, of course—they don't want people starving. The other catch is, well, they assign you a new orthohuman body and a history to play-act with. During the experiment, you're stuck in your assigned role. No netlink, no backups, no editing—if you hurt yourself, you have to wait for your body to repair itself. I mean, they didn't have A-gates back before the Acceleration, did they? Billions of people lived there, it can't be that bad, you just have to be prudent and take care not to mutilate yourself."

"But what's the experiment about?" I repeat. There's something missing; I can't quite put my finger on it . . .

"Well, it's supposed to represent a dark ages society," Linn explains. "We just live in it and follow the rules, and they watch us. Then it ends, and we leave. What more do you need?"

"What are the rules?" asks Kay.

"How should I know?" Linn smiles dreamily as she leans against Vhora, fondling the meso's horn, which is glowing softly pink and pulsing in time to her hand motions. "They're just trying to reinvent a microcosm of the polymorphic society that's ancestral to our own. A lot of our history comes out of the dark ages—it was when the Acceleration took hold—but we know so little about it. Maybe they think trying to understand how dark ages society worked will explain how we got where we are? Or something else. Something to do with the origins of the cognitive dictatorships and the early colonies."

"But the rules—"

"They're discretionary," says Vhora. "To prod the subjects toward behaving in character, they get points for behaving in ways in keeping with what we know about dark ages society, and they lose points for behaving wildly out of character. Points are convertible into extra bonus money when the experiment ends. That's all."

I stare at the meso. "How do you know that?" I ask.

"I read the protocol." Vhora manages an impish smirk. "They want to make people cooperate and behave consistently without being prescriptive. After all, in every society people transgress whatever rules there are, don't they? It's a matter of balancing costs with benefits."

"But it's just a points system," I say.

"Yes. So you can tell if you're doing well or badly, I suppose."

"That's a relief," Kay murmurs. She holds me tight. The afternoon sunlight in the forest glade is soft and yellow, and while there's a buzzing and rasping of insects in the background, the biome leaves us alone. Linn smiles at us again, a remarkably fey expression, and strokes that spot on top of Vhora's head. There's something unselfconsciously erotic about her gesture, but it's not an eroticism I share. "Shall we be going?" Kay asks me.

"Yes, I think so." I help her to her feet, and she in turn helps me up.

"Nice of you to visit," purrs Vhora, shivering visibly as Linn tickles the base of the horn again. "Are you sure you don't want to stay?"

"Thank you for the offer, but no," Kay says carefully, "I have a therapy appointment in a kilosec. Maybe some other time."

"Goodbye then," says Linn. Vhora is working one-handed at the laces on the back of her gown as Kay and I leave.

"Too bad about the therapy session," I say, once we're through the first gate and round the first corner. I hold my hand out, and she takes it. "I was hoping we could spend some time together."

Kay squeezes my hand. "What kind of therapy did you have in mind?"

"You mean you—"

"Hush, silly. Of course I lied! Did you think I was going to share you with ponygirl back there?"

I turn and back her against the wall, and suddenly she's all around me, greedy hands grasping and stroking and squeezing. Her mouth tastes of Kay and lunchtime spices, indescribable and exotic.

SOMETIME later we surface in a privacy bower in a restery neither of us knows, somewhere in the Green Maze, sweaty and naked and tired and elated. I've had sex with Kay in her private naked orthobody before, but this is different. She can do things with those four cunning hands that make me scream with delightful anticipation, holding me on the razor-fine edge of orgasm for a timeless eternity. I wish I could do something back to her, something similar. Maybe one day I will, if I get it together to go xenomorphic myself. I don't usually regret being tied to my self-image so strongly, but Kay's giving my inhibitions a good stretch.

Afterward, she rolls away from me, and I cradle her in my arms.

"They don't take couples," she says quietly.

"You said I need to go."

"That's true." She sounds tranquil about it. I don't know, I haven't asked—but is this simply an extended fling?

"I don't have to go."

"If you're in danger, I'd rather you were safe."

I cup her breast, one-handed. She shivers.

"I'd rather I was safe, too. But with you."

"We'd be in different bodies," she murmurs. "We probably wouldn't even recognize each other."

"Would you be all right like that?" I ask anxiously. "If you're shy—"

"I can pretend it's an extended disguise. I've done it before, remember."

Oh. "We'd have to lie." It slips out without my willing it.

"Why?" she asks. "We aren't actually a couple"—my heart skips a beat—"not yet."

"Are you mono? Or poly?" I ask.

"Both." Her nipple tightens under my fingertips. "It's easier to handle the emotional balance with just one partner, though." I feel her back tense slightly. "Do you get jealous?"

I have to think hard about it. "I don't think so, but I'm not certain. I don't remember enough to be sure. But . . . back there, when Linn invited us. I don't think I felt jealous then. As long as we're friends."

"Good." She begins to roll over toward me, then pushes herself up on all her arms and climbs across me until she's on top, hanging there like the spider goddess of earthly delights. "Then we won't be lying, exactly, if we tell them we aren't in a long-term relationship. Promise you'll look me up when we get inside? Or afterward, if you can't find me? Or if you end up not going inside after all?"

I stare into her eyes from a distance of millimeters, seeing hunger and desire and insecurity mirrored there. "Yes," I say, "I promise."

The spider goddess approves; she descends to reward her mate, holding him spread-eagled with four arms as she goes to work on him with her mouthparts and remaining limbs. While for his part, the male wonders if this is going to be their last time together.

AS I make my solitary way home from our assignation, someone tries to murder me.

I still haven't taken a backup, despite what I told Piccolo-47. It seems a somewhat irrevocable step, signifying my acceptance of my new state. Backing up your identity adds baggage, just as much as memory excision sheds it. In my case, however, it seems that I really should take a backup as soon as I get back to my room. It would probably hurt Kay if I were to die now and revert to the state I was in before we became involved, and not causing her pain has become important to me.

Maybe that's why I survive.

After we leave the restery we split up, with a shy wave and a glistening look for each other. Kay has a genuine therapy session to go to, and I am trying to hold myself to a routine of reading and research that demands I put in at least ten more kilosecs this diurn. We take our leave reluctantly, raw with new sensibilities. I'm still not sure how I feel, and the thought of going into the experimental polity worries me (will she recognize me? Will I recognize her? Will we care for each other in our assigned new forms and point-scoring roles?), but still, we're both mature adults. We have independent lives to lead. We can say goodbye if we want to.

I don't want company right now (apart from Kay's), so I tell my netlink to anonymize me as I head home via the graph of T-gates that connect the Green Maze. People reveal themselves to my filtered optic nerves as pillars of fog moving in stately silence, while my own identity is filtered out of their sensory input by their netlinks.

But not recognizing people is not the same as not knowing somebody is there, and you have to be able to dodge passersby even if you can't tell who they are. About halfway home I realize that one of the fogpillars is following me, usually a gate or two behind. How interesting, I tell myself as reflexes I didn't know I had kick in. They're clearly aware that I've got anonymity switched on, and it seems to be giving them a false sense of security. I tell my netlink to tag the fogpillar with a bright red stain and keep my positional sense updated with it. You can do this without breaking anonymity—it's one of the oldest tricks in the track and trail book. I carry on, taking pains to give no hint that I've recognized my shadow.

Rather than retracing the route we took through the Green Maze, I head directly toward my apartment's corridor. The fogpillar follows me, and I casually ease my left hand into the big hip pocket on my jacket, feeling my way through the spongy manifold of T-gates inside it until I find the right opening.

I'm walking along the nave of altars in the temple of the skeletal giants when my tail makes its move. There's nobody else about right now, which is probably why they pick this particular moment. They lunge toward me, thinking I can't see them, but the tag my netlink has added to their fogpillar gives them away—I've got a running range countdown in my left eye and as soon as they move, I cut the anonymity filter, spin, and draw.

He's a small, unremarkable-looking male—nut brown skin, black hair, narrow eyes, wiry build—and he's wearing a totally unremarkable-looking kilt and vest; in fact the only remarkable thing about him is his sword. It isn't a dueling sword, it's a power-assisted microfilament wire, capable of slicing through diamond armor as if it isn't there. It's completely invisible except for the red tracking bead that glows at its tip, almost two meters from his right hand.

Too bad. I brace, squeeze the trigger for a fraction of a second, then let go and try to blink away the hideous purple afterimages. There's a tremendously loud thunderclap, a vile stench of ozone and burned meat, and my arms hurt. The sword handle goes skittering across the worn flagstones, and I hastily jump out of the way—I don't want to lose a foot by accident—then I glance about, relying on my peripheral vision to tell me if anyone else is around.

"Scum!" I hiss in the direction of Mr. Crispy. I feel curiously unmoved by what I've just done, although I wish the afterimages would go away faster—you're supposed to use a blaster with flash-suppression goggles, but I didn't have time to grab them. The blaster is a simple weapon, just a small T-gate linked (via another pair of T-gates acting as a valve) to an endpoint orbiting in the photosphere of a supergiant star. It's messy, it's short-range, it'll take out anything short of full battle armor, and because it's basically just a couple of wormholes tied together with superstring, it's impossible to jam. On the minus side my ears are ringing, I can already feel the skin on my face itching with fresh radiation burns, and I think I melted a couple of the crypts. It's considered bad form for duelists to use blasters—or indeed anything that isn't strictly hand-powered—which is probably why he wasn't expecting it.

"Never bring a knife to a gun fight," I tell Mr. Crispy as I turn away from him. His right arm thinks about it for a moment, then falls off.

The rest of my journey home is uneventful, but I'm shaking, and my teeth are chattering with the aftershock by the time I get there. I shut the door and tell it to fuse with the walls, then drop into the single chair that sits in the middle of my room when the bed isn't extended. Did he know I hadn't recorded a backup? Did he realize my older self wouldn't have erased all my defensive reflexes, or that I'd know where to get hold of a blaster in the Invisible Republic? I've no idea. What I do know is someone just tried to kill me by stealth and without witnesses or the usual after-duel resurrection, which suggests that they want me offline while they find and tinker with my backups. Which makes it attempted identity theft, a crime against the individual that most polities rate as several degrees worse than murder.

There's no avoiding it now. I'm going to have to take a backup—and then I'm going to have to seek sanctuary inside the Yourdon experiment. As an isolated polity, disconnected from the manifold while the research project runs, it should be about as safe as anywhere can be. Just as long as none of my stalkers are signed up for it . . .