Cormac felt a sudden obstinate anger at this decision, despite the fact that it was perfectly logical.

"I am presuming," he said, "that the nearest Polity world might also be one of the three that Carl is heading for?"

"The likelihood that Carl has not headed off into the Graveyard is considered low. The likelihood of you encountering him on one of those three worlds, each of which is moderately to heavily populated, is nanoscopic. Also, Cormac, if it came to the attention of ECS that you were making personal enquiries about this, you would be disobeying a direct order to rest and recuperate, and so apprehended and sent out of this sector. This is now out of your hands."

"So what are the names of these three worlds?"

After a long pause his room screen blinked on to show three planets, with their names printed below them. One world was called Tanith, which he knew: a terraformed place of damp moors, dark forests and ersatz gothic castles. It was a tourist place for those with an inclination for such things. The one called Borandel he had never heard of, though wondered if he should have, it being so close to the border with the Prador Kingdom. But it was the last world that riveted his attention: it was called Patience.

He whispered the name to himself, then aug-linked to the room screen to take control of this access to information about that world. First to come up was news on current events there, which he quickly scanned through. Areas denuded of life during the war were recovering well and other areas rendered highly radioactive by bombardment, or unsafe because of the possible existence of human-specific engineered viruses, had been declared safe after many years of decontamination. The building of a massive city, upon mile-high stilts, was nearing completion in the Cavander mountains located in Hessick County, which eventually terminated in the Olston Peninsular; such a project apparently being an assertive declaration of the new optimism on this world, as was the arrival of the supposedly famous Thander Weapons Exhibition—something he had heard of before. But they needed to be forward looking and optimistic here, they needed to put behind them the memories of bitter battles fought against the Prador. Battles like the Hessick Campaign, in which Cormac's father had died.

"Crean wants to see you," Sadist unexpectedly announced.

Cormac continued staring at the screen, the skin on his back crawling. Of course he had known this world lay out this way, and of course he knew that odd and mysterious coincidences were an inevitability when billions of humans occupied so many worlds, but seeing this was creepy.

"What does she want?" he asked, perhaps rather too abruptly.

"She has come to a decision," Sadist replied, "and wants to acquaint you with it."

With a thought, Cormac shut off the screen, then sat staring at the blank surface for a long moment. He recalled now where he had heard of the Thander Weapons Exhibition. It was during his basic training, from Carl Thrace. Cormac stood and headed for the door. For now he would keep that particular bit of information to himself, though it was essential he get Crean to agree that they should head for the world called Patience.

Shortly he had reached the door to Crean's cabin, rapped his knuckles against it and waited. After a moment the lock in the frame clunked, and he pushed the door open.

Crean sat on her bed, utterly motionless. She was clad in a white disposable ship-suit, and with syntheskin and synthetic hair replaced, her appearance was much improved. Last time he had seen her she had been sitting in precisely the same position, but still skeletal and charred from the CTD blast, still minus one arm. Glancing round he noted burned remnants still strewn on the floor and over the bed sheets. Why she possessed a cabin and a bed was a mystery to Cormac, since she required no human comforts or even essentials like food or sleep. He guessed it was all about emulation—everything was with Golem. However, he did notice that her ship-suit hung loose and baggy and that her hands, though clear of burnt matter, were still bare of syntheflesh. The bones of her hands gleamed in her lap like steel spiders.

"How are you?" Cormac asked, irritated by the politenesses. Why should Golem have any problems related to flesh they could replace and minds they could reformat like the drives on primitive computers? Why was he playing the emulation game with her?

She looked up, and once again seeing her face reminded him how he had very much reacted to her on a human level. Remembering their erotic encounters here and in his own cabin irritated him too, for after recent tragic events, that now all seemed a childish game.

"I am what I am," she said, "and to be better, to be recovered, it would be necessary for me to cease to be what I am."

"I don't understand."

"Of course you don't," she said. "You still think that Golem are something less than human. You still view Golem as mere machines. You still retain a primitive archaic belief that the mind produced in flesh is something more. It's almost like a religious belief in souls. You cannot seem to accept that we are as complex as you, if not more so. Nor can you accept that you are merely a machine made out of different materials."

He wanted to argue, but she had nailed it. He did feel that way, no matter how foolish it might seem. It was all about emulation, he guessed. What use is emotion if it is something you could turn on and off? What is the use of ersatz humanity when it is something you can dispense with? It is a falsity. Yet, in humans, it had become possible to edit the mind and as a corollary, the emotions. Even now it was becoming possible to turn on and off the emotions in creatures of flesh; and soon memcording of all the data in that lump of flesh enclosing bone would be refined enough for humans, if they so choose, to become something else.

He shrugged, embarrassed. "I will learn."

Crean gazed at him for a long moment, said, "Perhaps I can help you." Then she smiled, closed her eyes and bowed forwards, once again freezing into immobility.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

No response.

"Crean?"

"She will not reply," Sadist informed him.

"What?"

"Crean has chosen to erase herself rather than reformat herself to a condition in which she could bear to be without her companions."

Cormac found himself backing towards the door. "What?"

"She has suicided."

He stumbled out into the corridor, the nausea earlier generated by the mem-load, returning in spades. Going down on his knees he vomited, then rested his head against the wall and wished he could cry. But something in him wouldn't permit that, and he wondered if those early edits of his mind had damaged it. He remained in the same position for some time, then slowly eased himself to his feet as a beetlebot peaked out of its home low in the wall.

"Do you want me to move her?" Cormac asked the AI.

"I will send one of my telefactors to deal with her," Sadist replied.

Cormac gazed down at the beetlebot as it hoovered up the thin bile he had spewed, erasing it to leave clean carpet behind. Wipe these things out, clear the slate, leave it clean and ready to be written on again. He understood his mother now, but refused to choose her course.

It was different this time. He felt no sense of being a child and, though he recognised his surroundings as his mother's home, the place had been redecorated and modernized. He walked into the living room and sprawled in one of the armchairs, just like Dax used to do, and even reached over to take up the conveniently placed bottle of whisky and glass, and pour himself a drink. When his mother walked in, she studied him for a moment before seating herself in the sofa adjacent, her legs crossed and her fingers interlaced over one knee.