IX

I close up the fish's mouth, and retreat down one of the passages. I've stuck up flat screens and microphones throughout the fish's interior. They connect to the speakers outside, to two good fish eyes near the front, and to a dozen fuzzy black-and-white portholes along the sides.

People seem to have the idea that the Milieu rests in a different set of dimensions from the fleshy world. It doesn't. It rests in the hardware of twenty-eight big machines and several hundred million personal terminals. These two walls here, these dark wet walls that stir to my touch, could be simultaneously right next to each other and on different sides of the planet. As it happens, I've gone to great lengths to make sure they are on the same side of the planet, in the same room on the same bit of physical memory. Two terminals I've rented, two terminals, in actual physical space somewhere, are joined together with a cord. Only one of them is linked to the Milieu. In that one I've lodged the fish. Now I'm hidden in the one behind it, the one not linked to the Milieu. This is standard siege practice. The fish denies access to the first terminal, so nobody can get into the second one. Apart from me, a small uninteresting library, and a couple links through the fish, that second terminal hides exactly one special secret.

So if they want me, they'll have to kill my fish first: unless, of course, they go find the terminals, in some basement somewhere, on the top of some building, at the bottom of some lake, but when was the last time that happened? People don't think in terms of real space anymore. Not anymore. I remember when they did. And here's my secret: I lied, the second terminal has one tiny little link to the Milieu. Exactly one. Installed per my request as an emergency back door. Never used. No information put inside it, no fish to guard it. No fingerprints. Practically untraceable. A little risky. They may suspect I've dug a tunnel, but they shouldn't be able to find where it surfaces. I'm not even sure where it surfaces. It's better than having your back against a wall. It's having your back against a thousand-foot drop . . .

To the various predators of the Milieu, and to all their supervisors, the fish just looks like a fish. On a hill. From which my voice may occasionally issue, should I deem it appropriate. There's no sense in pretending I'm not in here.

X

"Dom Drane?" I hear, and oh how I'm tempted to say, He's not here.

I move down a corridor and peer through a window. There could be something out there. There's definitely some movement, but the shape's grainy, and there's no color. The cameras are better near the front.

The voice says, "Hello. It's okay, I know you're in there somewhere. Would you like to come outside? We can talk about your problem, whatever that is." It's a light, calm voice, the kind of voice they use to coax mass-murderers and resurrection victims out of buildings and fish. I laugh, quietly. Exactly how stupid do they think I am?

There is silence. I bite my lip. I decide to speak. Into a microphone I say, "exactly how stupid do you think I am?" There's a tiny echo of my voice.

"Mr Drane." The shape moves out of my field of vision. "Hello."

"Hi."

"I'm serious. We can talk. It's just me."

"You're pitching your persuasion a little low. Hold on."

I walk quickly to the central hold, where most of the screens are located. The robot is saying something outside, but I can't hear it properly. I round the corner and enter the room in time to hear it say, "-- about it?"

I sink down into a slab of fish-chair, wriggling around till I'm comfortable. This room is carpeted in green and blue. There is one errant thread sticking out of the carpet, representing my secret passage out of here.

I pick up a microphone. "Offering me sweeties would be a step up."

There's a sigh. The walls tremble a little. I guess it's prodding the fish. It can keep prodding. I build my doors solid. Enough time, enough resources brought to bear, and they can probably find a way in. But I'm pretty sure this little robot isn't up to it. Still, maybe it can tell me what's going on. I would really like to know what's going on.

"I'm not Dom Drane, and if I was, you couldn't convince me to come out, and if you could," I say, "then we're talking now."

"Could I see you?"

"Come round to the front of the fish. Where the eyes are."

I can see it now. Looks like a couple of tires glued together. Hosepipe arms. No legs, the thing just hovers there. A bit of face nestled in there somewhere.

"I still can't see you," it says.

"Yeah, but I can see you. Stay there and we can keep talking."

"Okay, Dom."

"Okay."

XI

This is what I want to say:

Ha ha, you're not fooling me, robot. You're from the Sons of Isaac. They know I stole the Improbable Pearl, and they've been torturing my body for the past couple months, but got a little carried away and accidentally killed me. Now they want to restore a mind to the flesh, so that they can have a couple more centuries of fun. No fear.

Except, I can just imagine the reply.

You stole the Improbable Pearl? From the Sons of Isaac? And you're telling me this?

The Improbable Pearl attracted, at the height of its popularity, a trickle of rumor and speculation, feeble as artifacts go. It was whispered that the Pearl could, perhaps, effectively sharpen knives if incorporated into a small cardboard pyramid. Some said there was scientific evidence suggesting that if the Improbable Pearl were crushed down it could be added to stew to give a decidedly delicious flavor with an aroma to match.

Perhaps its best task is to sit in the forehead of an ugly statue in an uglier religion and glint and glare all day. That didn't stop the cult from providing compensation. A knife-sharpener was always at the ready in the hands of some eager acolyte, and at one point the priests were handing out small sachets of barbeque beef powder to their guests. Cruel to their enemies, the Sons of Isaac, but every visitor is a potential convert, even me, even an old hedonist like Dom Drane. The funny thing is, I can't remember exactly what it was I was there to do. Fill out forms. I can't remember which forms. The nice priests found time for a form-filler, time to show me around the temple.

I was standing there, in that small marbled chamber, staring at the ugly statue and its pretty pearl. The guy in the robe was watching me nervously, hopping from one foot to another, and I was plotting to steal the pearl. Actually, what I was plotting was this: if the guy in the robe leaves, I'm going to steal the pearl. Because I just knew what he was thinking. He was thinking, I have to go, but can I trust him? Surely I can trust him alone with it for a couple minutes? Surely people aren't all that bad? It was an artistically necessary crime. I still don't know exactly what emergency called him away that day; perhaps Isaac needed something. When he left, I opened up one of my plastic legs, prized out one of the plastic ball, and made the exchange. One of my equally improbable earrings might also have done the trick, but the inside of my leg looked more authentic. Actually it looked extremely authentic; the similarity is what gave me the idea in the first place. It was too good an opportunity to miss. It was just too good an opportunity.

I remember limping outside, onto the temple's stone steps and breathing in deeply, I remember the air tasted of disinfectant. The pearl, cold and heavy against the severed end of my knee, really felt magical then, just for a little while, I really believed there might be some magic in it.

That was the day before my birthday. I was turning sixty-two.

XII

"I have a right to be left in peace," I say.

"You don't, actually," says the robot.

"I didn't think so."

"No."

"It was worth a try."

"You're not going to get hurt," the robot says brightly. "We're doing something to benefit you. I don't see why you're being difficult. I've got a lot of work to do. Can't we sort this out quickly? You'll be home in time for lunch."

"Point," I say. "I am a fragment. I am not a complete personality. You would not be trying to restore me if there were intact Dom Drane back-ups, therefore, somebody has erased all my back-ups. That's very nasty. You would not be trying to restore me if there was an intact Dom Drane. That's not quite as nasty, but it's fairly nasty. So somebody is definitely out to get Dom. Also, I have been monitoring Dom's cash flow, and I know I don't have enough money to finance a restoration at this point. Which leaves the questions -- who? And why? Finally, this is all academic, I don't want to go anyway. I'm only justifying it to make your job easier."

I don't mention the other reason they could be ignoring my previous back-ups: the fact that previous back-ups haven't stolen from the Sons of Isaac.

Eventually, the robot says, "that's several points, uh, Dom, and you've got it all wrong anyway. You probably think -- I know what you think, Dom -- that as soon as you've been downloaded people are going to be, I don't know, doing experiments on you, putting you in prison or sending you to some crazy war, or something. But it's not like that. You're going to go straight back to your old life. Not even any hospital bills to pay. Not even any crazed assassins to avoid. Killing you, that was a mistake, an administrative error. The Guild is covering all the costs. Dom, they'll pay for your ride home."

"I don't want to go back to my old life."

"You'd rather hang around here forever, would you?"

I say nothing. The robot repeats, a little uncertainly, "Would you?"

"Better than being Dom Drane again."

"Wow. No, look, if it's the body you're worried about, it's mostly rebuilt anyway. Ten years younger. At least. Under warranty, probably. I don't know, but it probably is. If you don't give yourself up, it'll get stale."

"Oh?"

"You'd be crazy to turn it down, Dom. Crazy."

"Have you noticed that you're contradicting yourself? First life is peachy for Dom Drane. Then his body is so badly mutilated that it mostly gets rebuilt, and you start using phrases like 'give yourself up.' You're not fooling me at all."

"That came out badly. But you're not listening to me. The important thing is that it was a mistake."

"Tell me how it happened."

"You won't believe it."

"Try me."

"Have you kept track of yourself after the accident?"

"The miracle, you mean, and yes, a little. Just the money situation. Not great."

"You're still employed with the Guild. No promotions."

"I figured."

"So, one day, you're sitting in your cubicle, doing the usual stuff . . . it seems a woman walked in and asked to use your other terminal. You said okay, and kept working . . . the Guild figures you got distracted watching her. She's a hair-tossing, lip-chewing type. Waistline built like a trophy. She shouldn't have been there at all."

"Did I get anywhere with her?"

"No. I think you tried to engage in conversation, and she left. But listen. She's not important, except as a distraction. While you were pleasantly diverted, mind only half on your work, a Z-32 came up on your terminal. You remember what a Z-32 is, Dom?"

"Basic form issued to bounty hunters, stating that the assassination for such-and-such has been declared public domain, with such-and-such a reward, that kind of thing. I did a lot of them."

"You know the space where the administrator, in this case, you, enters in his name, just so that when something goes wrong they know who to blame?"

"Yes."

"You know the space where you put the name of the unfortunate target?"

"I --"

"Guess what, Dom."