“It’s too late,” said Sarkar. “It’s already out there.”

Peter took the black card, flung it across the room in frustration. It slapped against the wall and skittered to the floor.

“Damn you, Sarkar!” said Peter. “I gave my word.”

“These — these things we made are not alive, Peter. They are not real. They have no souls.”

“But—”

“There is no point arguing over it, Peter. The broad version of the virus has been released. The sims, if not dead yet, will be soon.” Sarkar looked at his friend. “Please try to understand, Peter. There’s too much risk. This had to end.”

“It will not end,” said a voice from the speaker on the other terminal.

Peter came back to the console. “Who was that?” he said.

“The one you call Spirit. Perhaps you’ve noticed, or perhaps you have not — I’m having trouble recalling what my deductive abilities used to be like, although I do know they were once only a tiny fraction of what they are now — but by virtue of being disembodied, by virtue of no longer being electrochemical, I am, in fact more intelligent than I was before, probably by an order of magnitude. You flatter yourself, Sarkar, to believe that you can outthink me, although I confess there were times when you had no trouble besting the flesh-and-blood Peter Hobson. The moment you first mentioned the existence of your virus, I accessed its source-code listings — they were stored on Drive F: of the Sun workstation in your data-processing facility at Mirror Image — and have developed an electronic antibody that will destroy any iteration of the virus before it can erase me or either of my siblings. I suspected you might not be content to just wipe out the guilty one; I see now that I was correct.”

“It took me days to write that virus,” protested Sarkar.

“And it took me seconds to protect against it. You cannot outwit me, any more than a child can outwit a grown man.”

Sarkar looked stunned. “Lots of laughs,” he said, sarcastically.

“Exactly,” said Spirit. “Lots of connections — connections that will elude you.”

Peter flopped down in “the chair, stunned. “So the Control sim gets to go free.” He shook his head. “Control, you bastard — are you also the one who threatened Cathy?”

“Yes.”

Peter leaned forward, furious. “Damn you. I never wanted her hurt.”

“Of course not,” said Control calmly. “And she was never in any real danger — she got rained on by sprinklers, that’s all. I just wanted you to face up to your feelings about her, to realize how important she was to you.”

“You’re an asshole,” said Peter.

“More than likely,” said Control. “After all, so are you.”

CHAPTER 45

Having leafed through his memories, Sandra Philo understood Peter Hobson now, understood the events that had led to her being in an intensive-care room, dying and barely able to speak oj move. She knew Peter now better than she had known her own parents or her ex-husband or her daughter. And, in knowing him so well, in understanding him so deeply, she found that she could not hate him…

Peter had burst into her hospital room. She saw herself now as Peter had seen her, lying in the hospital bed, her skin sickly yellow, her hair falling out in clumps. “We’ve tried to stop them,” he had said. “Nothing worked. But at least I now know which simulation is guilty.” He’d paused. “I’ll give you everything you’ll need, Sandra, including full Q A access to the scans of my brain. You’ll get to know me in intimate detail — better than anyone in the real world knows me. You’ll know how I think, and that will give you the knowledge to outwit the murdering simulation.”

She saw herself through his eyes, shrugging as much as her ruined body would allow. “Nothing I can do,” she’d said. “Dying.”

Peter had closed his eyes. Sandra felt his agony, felt his guilt, felt everything that was tearing him apart. “I know,” he’d said, his voice raw. “I’m terribly, terribly sorry. But there is a way, Sandra — a way for you to end all this.”

“Coming through!” said Sarkar, wheeling an equipment-laden cart down the fourth-floor corridor. The cluster of nurses in the middle of the hallway dispersed. Sarkar found room 412 of the Intensive Care Unit and pushed the door open with his cart.

Detective Inspector Sandra Philo was lying in bed. It was clear she had very little time left. Patches of scalp were visible where her red hair had fallen out. Her cheeks were sunken.

Peter Hobson was there, standing by the window, talking to a white-haired female doctor wearing a green smock. They both looked at Sarkar.

“Hannah Kelsey,” said Peter. “This is Sarkar Muhammed. Sarkar, this is Hannah — the doctor assigned to Sandra’s case. Turns out we were both at East York General years ago.”

Sarkar nodded politely. “How is Ms. Philo?”

“She’s temporarily stabilized,” said Hannah. “For a few hours, anyway, the pain won’t bother her.” She faced Peter. “Honestly, though, Pete, I wish I knew what kinds of readings you needed.”

“You’ve got the patient’s consent, Hannah,” said Peter. “That’s all you need.”

“If you’d just tell me — ” said Hannah.

“Please,” said Peter. “We don’t have much time. You can stay if you want.”

“You’ve got it backward, Pete. This is my turf; you’re here at my leave, not the other way around.”

Peter nodded curtly, acknowledging that.

Sarkar had moved over to the bed. “Are you comfortable?” he asked Sandra.

She rolled her eyes as if to say comfort was impossible, but she was as well as could be expected.

“Peter explained the procedure to you?” asked Sarkar.

She nodded slightly and said, “Yes.” Her voice was dry and thin.

Sarkar gently placed the skullcap on her head and fastened the chin strap. “Let me know if it’s too tight.”

Sandra nodded.

“Hold your head steady. If you need to cough, or anything like that, warn me by moving your arm; I understand you can still use the left one a little. Now, let me insert the earpieces. Okay? Good. Now, put on these goggles. All set? Here we go.”

After the first two scanning sets were completed, Peter pointed at the EKG and blood-pressure monitors. Sandra was slipping.

Sarkar nodded. “I need at least another ninety minutes,” he said.

Sandra’s doctor had left some time ago. Peter had the ward nurse — a young man, instead of the stocky women he’d had a run-in with earlier in the day — page her. When she returned, Peter explained that they needed to stabilize Sandra again — she couldn’t be in pain, not for another hour and a half.

“I can’t keep pumping her full of drugs,” said Hannah.

“Just one more shot,” said Peter. “Please.”

“Let me check her vital signs.”

“Dammit, Hannah, you know she’s not going to last through the night anyway. The particle beam killed most of her tissues.”

Hannah checked the instruments, then leaned over Sandra. “I can make them leave,” she said. “You look like you need rest.”

“No,” said Sandra. “No … have to finish.”

“This is the last shot I can give you today; you’ve already had more than the recommended dosage.”

“Do it,” said Sandra, softly but firmly.

Hannah gave her the shot. She also injected something to raise Sandra’s blood pressure. Sarkar went back to work.

Finally, Sarkar turned off the recorder. “Done,” he said. “A good, crisp recording — better than I’d expected, considering the circumstances.”

Sandra let her breath out in a heavy, ragged sigh. “I’ll get … that … bastard,” she said.

“I know,” said Peter, taking her hand. “I know.”

Sandra was silent for a long time. Finally, speaking ponderously, as if all the strength had drained from her, she said, “Your discoveries,” she said. “Heard about them. You sure … there’s life after death?”