I tried another smile. “There’s nothing I can do about it now. The artificial nerves and receptors are already fused to the neural pathways or whatever, and they say structural changes would screw with the graft, but next time, I’ll do it in advance, so I’ll be able to order whatever I want. Then I’ll look more like…”
“Lia,” he said.
I am Lia .
But I said it in my head, where there was no one to hear.
“I’ll look more like me ,” I said out loud. Calmly. “Next time.”
“Wait, what do you mean, next time?”
“When the, uh, body wears out or—” I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to block out the echo of the crash, the scream of metal that refused to die—“if something happens to it, they’ll download the, uh…” Data? Program? Brain? Soul? There was no right word. There was only me , looking out through some thing’s dead eyes. “They’ll do it again. When they need to.”
“So you just get a new body when the old one runs out?” he asked. “And they keep doing it…forever?”
“That’s the plan.” As the words came out of the mouth, I finally saw it, what it meant. I saw the day he found the first tuft of hair stuck in the shower drain or woke up to a gray strand on his pillow. His first wrinkle in the bathroom mirror. The day he blew out his knee in his last football game. The day his potbelly bulged as he stopped playing and kept eating. Any of the days, all of the days, starting with tomorrow, when he’d be one day older than today; and then the next, two days older, and the next and the next, as he grew, as he aged, as he declined…as I stayed the same. Shunted from one unchanging husk of metal and plastic to the next.
I got there a moment before he did, but only a moment, and then he got there too. I saw it on his face.
“Forever.” Walker grimaced. “You’ll be like…this. Forever.” He stood up.
Don’t leave, I thought. Not yet. But I wasn’t about to say it out loud. Even if he couldn’t see it, I was still Lia Kahn. I didn’t beg.
“So, what’s it like?” he asked, crossing the room. To the bed—to me. He sat down on the edge, leaving a space between us. “Can you, like, feel stuff?”
“Yeah. Of course.” If it counted as feeling, the way the whole world seemed hidden behind a scrim. Fire was warm. Ice was cool. Everything was mild. Nothing was right.
I held out a hand, palm up. “Do you want to…? You can see what it feels like. To touch it. If you want.”
He lifted his arm, extended a finger, hesitated over my exposed wrist, trembling.
He touched it. Me.
Shuddered. Snatched his hand away.
Then touched me again. Palm to palm. He curled his fingers around the hand. Around my hand.
“You can really feel that?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“So what’s it feel like?”
“Like it always does.” A lie. Artificial nerves, artificial conduits, artificial receptors, registering the fact of a touch. Reporting back to a central processor the fact of a hand, five fingers, flesh bearing down. Measuring the temperature, the pressure per square inch, the duration, and all of it translated, somehow, into something resembling a sensation. “It feels good.” I paused. “What does it feel like to you?”
“You mean…?”
“The skin.”
“It’s…” He scrunched his eyebrows together. “Not the same as before. But not…weird. It feels like skin.” He let go.
I brushed the back of my hand across his cheek. This time he didn’t move away. “You need to shave.”
“I like it like this,” he said, giving me a half smile. It was the same thing he always said.
“You’re the only one.” That was the standard response. We’d had the fight that wasn’t a fight so often it was like we were following a script, one that always ended the same way. And if I acted like everything was the same, maybe…
“It looks good,” he argued, the half smile widening into a full grin.
“It doesn’t feel good. So unless you want to scratch
“Lia,” he said.
I am Lia .
But I said it in my head, where there was no one to hear.
“I’ll look more like me ,” I said out loud. Calmly. “Next time.”
“Wait, what do you mean, next time?”
“When the, uh, body wears out or—” I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to block out the echo of the crash, the scream of metal that refused to die—“if something happens to it, they’ll download the, uh…” Data? Program? Brain? Soul? There was no right word. There was only me , looking out through some thing’s dead eyes. “They’ll do it again. When they need to.”
“So you just get a new body when the old one runs out?” he asked. “And they keep doing it…forever?”
“That’s the plan.” As the words came out of the mouth, I finally saw it, what it meant. I saw the day he found the first tuft of hair stuck in the shower drain or woke up to a gray strand on his pillow. His first wrinkle in the bathroom mirror. The day he blew out his knee in his last football game. The day his potbelly bulged as he stopped playing and kept eating. Any of the days, all of the days, starting with tomorrow, when he’d be one day older than today; and then the next, two days older, and the next and the next, as he grew, as he aged, as he declined…as I stayed the same. Shunted from one unchanging husk of metal and plastic to the next.
I got there a moment before he did, but only a moment, and then he got there too. I saw it on his face.
“Forever.” Walker grimaced. “You’ll be like…this. Forever.” He stood up.
Don’t leave, I thought. Not yet. But I wasn’t about to say it out loud. Even if he couldn’t see it, I was still Lia Kahn. I didn’t beg.
“So, what’s it like?” he asked, crossing the room. To the bed—to me. He sat down on the edge, leaving a space between us. “Can you, like, feel stuff?”
“Yeah. Of course.” If it counted as feeling, the way the whole world seemed hidden behind a scrim. Fire was warm. Ice was cool. Everything was mild. Nothing was right.
I held out a hand, palm up. “Do you want to…? You can see what it feels like. To touch it. If you want.”
He lifted his arm, extended a finger, hesitated over my exposed wrist, trembling.
He touched it. Me.
Shuddered. Snatched his hand away.
Then touched me again. Palm to palm. He curled his fingers around the hand. Around my hand.
“You can really feel that?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“So what’s it feel like?”
“Like it always does.” A lie. Artificial nerves, artificial conduits, artificial receptors, registering the fact of a touch. Reporting back to a central processor the fact of a hand, five fingers, flesh bearing down. Measuring the temperature, the pressure per square inch, the duration, and all of it translated, somehow, into something resembling a sensation. “It feels good.” I paused. “What does it feel like to you?”
“You mean…?”
“The skin.”
“It’s…” He scrunched his eyebrows together. “Not the same as before. But not…weird. It feels like skin.” He let go.
I brushed the back of my hand across his cheek. This time he didn’t move away. “You need to shave.”
“I like it like this,” he said, giving me a half smile. It was the same thing he always said.
“You’re the only one.” That was the standard response. We’d had the fight that wasn’t a fight so often it was like we were following a script, one that always ended the same way. And if I acted like everything was the same, maybe…
“It looks good,” he argued, the half smile widening into a full grin.
“It doesn’t feel good. So unless you want to scratch
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