Glasshouse Read Free

screaming, but maybe she’s got an autonomic override. Anyway, I’m busy holding my leg together. Blood keeps welling up between my fingers. Comradeship in pain. “You are . . . ?”
    â€œGwyn.” She swallows. The light of hatred is extinguished, leaving something—puzzlement?—behind.
    â€œWhen did you last back up, Gwyn?”
    She squints. “Unh. Hour. Ago.”
    â€œWell then. Would you like me to end this?”
    It takes a moment for her to meet my eyes. She nods. “When? You?”
    I lean over, grimacing, and pick up her blade. “When did I last back myself up? Since recovering from memory surgery, you mean?”
    She nods, or maybe shudders. I raise the blade and frown, lining it up on her neck: it takes all my energy. “Good question—”
    I slice through her throat. Blood sprays everywhere.
    â€œNever.”
    I stumble to the exit—an A-gate—and tell it to rebuild my leg before returning me to the bar. It switches me off, and a subjective instant later, I wake up in the kiosk in the washroom at the back of the bar, my body remade as new. I stare into the mirror for about a minute, feeling empty but, curiously, at peace with myself. Maybe I’ll be ready for a backup soon? I flex my right leg. The assembler’s done a good job of canonicalizing it, and the edited muscle works just fine. I resolve to avoid Gwyn, at least until she’s in a less insensately violent mood, which may take a long time if she keeps picking fights with her betters. Then I return to my table.
    Kay is still there, which is odd. I’d expected her to be gone by now.(A-gates are fast, but it still takes a minimum of about a thousand seconds to tear down and rebuild a human body: that’s a lot of bits and atoms to juggle.)
    I drop into my seat. She has bought me another drink. “I’m sorry about that,” I say automatically.
    â€œYou get used to it around here.” She sounds philosophical. “Feeling better?”
    â€œYou know, I—” I stop. Just for a moment I’m back in that dusty concrete-strewn wasteland, a searing pain in my leg, the sheer hatred I feel fueling my throw at Gwyn’s head. “It’s gone,” I say. I stare at the glass, then pick it up and knock back half of it in one go.
    â€œWhat’s gone?” I catch her watching me. “If you don’t mind talking about it,” she adds hastily.
    She’s frightened but concerned, I suddenly realize. My parole ring pulses warmth repeatedly. “I don’t mind,” I say, and smile, probably a trifle tiredly. I put the glass down. “I’m still in the dissociative phase, I guess. Before I came out this evening I was sitting in my room all on my own, and I was drawing pretty lines all over my arms with a scalpel. Thinking about opening my wrists and ending it all. I was angry. Angry at myself. But now I’m not.”
    â€œThat’s very common.” Her tone is guarded. “What changed it for you?”
    I frown. Knowing it’s a common side effect of reintegration doesn’t help. “I’ve been an idiot. I need to take a backup as soon as I go home.”
    â€œA backup?” Her eyes widen. “You’ve been walking around here wearing a sword and a dueling sash all evening, and you don’t have a backup ?” Her voice rises to a squeak. “What are you trying to do ?”
    â€œKnowing you’ve got a backup blunts your edge. Anyway, I was angry with myself.” I stop frowning as I look at her. “But you can’t stay angry forever.”
    More to the point, I’m suddenly feeling an awful, hollow sense of dread about the idea of rediscovering who I am, or who I used to be. What does it mean, to suddenly begin sensing other people’s emotions again only after you run someone through with a sword? Back in thedark ages it would have been a tragedy. Even here, dying