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sorry," she said. "We didn't think this is how it would be."
    "Maybe you should have given it more thought," Jamie said.
    It isn't sorrow, he told himself again. It's just electrons moving.
    "You were such a beautiful baby." Her lower lip trembled. "We didn't want to lose you. They said that it would only be a few years before they could implant your memories in a clone."
    Jamie knew all that by now. Knew that the technology of reading memories turned out to be much, much simpler than implanting them—it had been discovered that the implantation had to be made while the brain was actually growing. And government restrictions on human cloning had made tests next to impossible, and that the team that had started his project had split up years ago, some to higher-paying jobs, some retired, others to pet projects of their own. How his father had long ago used up whatever pull he'd had at the University trying to keep everything together. And how he long ago had acquired or purchased patents and copyrights for the whole scheme, except for Jamie's program, which was still owned jointly by the University and the family.
    Tears reappeared on Mom's lower face, dripped off her chin. "There's potentially a lot of money at stake, you know. People want to raise perfect children. Keep them away from bad influences, make sure that they're raised free from violence."
    "So they want to control the kid's entire environment," Jamie said.
    "Yes. And make it safe. And wholesome. And—"
    "Just like normal family life, " Jamie finished. "No diapers, no vomit, no messes. No having to interact with the kid when the parents are tired. And then you just download the kid into an adult body, give him a diploma, and kick him out of the house. And call yourself a perfect parent."
    "And there are religious people  . . . " Mom licked her lips. "Your Dad's been talking to them. They want to raise children in environments that reflect their beliefs completely. Places where there is no temptation, no sin. No science or ideas that contradict their own . . . "
    "But Dad isn't religious," Jamie said.
    "These people have money. Lots of money."
    Mom reached out, took his hand. Jamie thought about all the code that enabled her to do it, that enabled them both to feel the pressure of unreal flesh on unreal flesh.
    "I'll do what you wish, of course," she said. "I don't have that desire for immortality, the way your father does." She shook her head. "But I don't know what your father will do once his time comes."
    Â 
    The world was a disk a hundred meters across, covered with junk: old Roman ruins, gargoyles fallen from a castle wall, a broken chariot, a shattered bell. Outside the rim of the world, the sky was black, utterly black, without a ripple or a star.
    Standing in the center of the world was a kind of metal tree with two forked, jagged arms.
    "Hi, Digit," Becca said.
    A dull fitful light gleamed on the metal tree, as if it were reflecting a bloody sunset.
    "Hi, sis," it said.
    "Well," Becca said. "We're alone now."
    "I caught the notice of Dad's funeral. I hope nobody missed me."
    " I missed you, Digit." Becca sighed. "Believe it or not."
    "I'm sorry."
    Becca restlessly kicked a piece of junk, a hubcap from an old, miniature car. It clanged as it found new lodgement in the rubble. "Can you appear as a person?" she asked. "It would make it easier to talk to you."
    "I've finished with all that," Jamie said. "I'd have to resurrect too much dead programming. I've cut the world down to next to nothing; I've got rid of my body, my heartbeat, the sense of touch."
    "All the human parts," Becca said sadly.
    The dull red light oozed over the metal tree like a drop of blood. "Everything except sleep and dreams. It turns out that sleep and dreams have too much to do with the way people process memory. I can't get rid of them, not without cutting out too much of my mind." The tree gave a strange, disembodied laugh. "I dreamed about you, the other