SIXTY

Earth, Christchurch

Karen sat in the waiting room of the Christchurch clinic, face pale and drawn from lack of sleep. It had been thirty hours since she discovered her husband's body, and still there was no word from technicians about the implant.

Her chair was opposite a window. Outside, the streets of Christchurch were filled with people, many in Hexamon uniforms, many Terrestrial citizens, thronging around the hospital. News of the evacuation had arrived less than half an hour ago; she worried now that her husband's condition would be of no importance whatsoever in the middle of this enormously greater crisis, that they would both be forgotten.

She glanced at her hands. Despite scrubbing in the hospital lavatory,

278 GREG BEAR

she saw there was still an overlooked speck of dried blood under her index fingernail. She focused on that speckwher husband's bloodtand closed her eyes. The memories would not go away: opening up his neck, digging for the implant, slipping it into a pocket and zipping the pocket Page 499

shut, driving along the dark roads in a balky ATV with the body and the implant into Twizel, all taking hours. After the sky had cleared, a shuttle had flown her into Christchurch.

The body, useless, had stayed in Twizel.

The issues were far from clear to her.

They had spent so many years together, and so few years, in comparison, growing apart . . Their time coming together again had been so brief.

Humans are made for sorrow. We are not made for answers or certain-tie~

A technician not the same one she had given the implant to came through the door of the waiting room, glanced around until he saw her, and set his jaw grimly, a professional expression that indicated trouble.

She raised her eyebrows, lips forming an expectant O.

"Mrs. Lanier?"

She gave the slightest nod.

"Are you sure the implant came from your husband?"

Karen stared at him. "I'm sure. I . . . took it from him myself."

The technician spread his hands and glanced at the window.

"He's dead?" she asked suddenly.

"The implant doesn't contain your husband, Mrs. Lanier. There's a personality, but it's female, not male. We have no record of this personality in our files We

don't know who she is. She's complete, however--"

"What

Page 500

are you talking about?" Karen asked.

"If

the implant is from your husband, I don't see---"

She

stood and almost sreamed, "Tell me what has happened!"

The

technician shook his head quickly, intensely embarrassed and uncomfortable.

"There's a young woman in the implant, about twenty-one years old. She seems to have been out of actionmstored--for some time, maybe twenty years; she doesn't have any memory of contemporary events.

She certainly wasn't downline loaded recently. Her coding--" "That's impossible," Karen said. "Where's my husband?"

"I

don't know. Are you acquainted with anyone named Andia?" "What?"

"Andia.

This woman's ID lists that name."

"She

was our daughter," Karen said, the blood draining from her face.