The Wedding Album by David Marusek
Anne and Benjamin stood stock still, as instructed, close but not touching, while the simographer
adjusted her apparatus, set its timer, and ducked out of the room. It would take only a moment,
she said. They were to think only happy happy thoughts.

For once in her life, Anne was unconditionally happy, and everything around her made her
happier: her gown, which had been her grandmother’s; the wedding ring (how cold it had felt
when Benjamin first slipped it on her finger!); her clutch bouquet of forget-me-nots and
buttercups; Benjamin himself, close beside her in his charcoal grey tux and pink carnation. He
who so despised ritual but was a good sport. His cheeks were pink, too, and his eyes sparkled
with some wolfish fantasy. "Come here," he whispered. Anne shushed him; you weren’t supposed
to talk or touch during a casting; it could spoil the sims. "I can’t wait," he whispered, "this is taking
too long." And it did seem longer than usual, but this was a professional simulacrum, not some
homemade snapshot.

They were posed at the street end of the living room, next to the table piled with brightly
wrapped gifts. This was Benjamin’s townhouse; she had barely moved in. All her treasures were
still in shipping shells in the basement, except for the few pieces she’d managed to have
unpacked: the oak refectory table and chairs, the sixteenth-century French armoire, the cherry
wood chifforobe, the tea table with inlaid top, the silvered mirror over the fire surround. Of
course, her antiques clashed with Benjamin’s contemporary-and rather common-decor, but he
had promised her the whole house to redo as she saw fit. A whole house!

"How about a kiss?" whispered Benjamin.

Anne smiled but shook her head; there’d be plenty of time later for that sort of thing.

Suddenly, a head wearing wraparound goggles poked through the wall and quickly surveyed the
room. "Hey, you," it said to them.

"Is that our simographer?" Benjamin said.

The head spoke into a cheek mike, "This one’s the keeper," and withdrew as suddenly as it had
appeared.

"Did the simographer just pop her head in through the wall?" said Benjamin.

"I think so," said Anne, though it made no sense.

"I’ll just see what’s up," said Benjamin, breaking his pose. He went to the door but could not grasp
its handle.

Music began to play outside, and Anne went to the window. Her view of the garden below was
blocked by the blue-and-white-striped canopy they had rented, but she could clearly hear the
clink of flatware on china, laughter, and the musicians playing a waltz. "They’re starting without
us," she said, happily amazed.

"They’re just warming up," said Benjamin.

"No, they’re not. That’s the first waltz. I picked it myself."

"So let’s waltz," Benjamin said and reached for her. But his arms passed through her in a flash of
pixelated noise. He frowned and examined his hands.

Anne hardly noticed. Nothing could diminish her happiness. She was drawn to the table of
wedding gifts. Of all the gifts, there was only one-a long flat box in flecked silver wrapping-that
she was most keen to open. It was from Great Uncle Karl. When it came down to it, Anne was
both the easiest and the hardest person to shop for. While everyone knew of her passion for
antiques, few had the means or expertise to buy one. She reached for Karl’s package, but her
hand passed right through it. This isn’t happening, she thought with gleeful horror.

That it was, in fact, happening was confirmed a moment later when a dozen people-Great Uncle
Karl, Nancy, Aunt Jennifer, Traci, Cathy and Tom, the bridesmaids and others, including Anne
herself, and Benjamin, still in their wedding clothes-all trooped through the wall wearing
wraparound goggles. "Nice job," said Great Uncle Karl, inspecting the room, "first rate."

"Ooooh," said Aunt Jennifer, comparing the identical wedding couples, identical but for the
goggles. It made Anne uncomfortable that the other Anne should be wearing goggles while she
wasn’t. And the other Benjamin acted a little drunk and wore a smudge of white frosting on his
lapel. We’ve cut the cake, she thought happily, although she couldn’t remember doing so. Geri,
the flower girl in a pastel dress, and Angus, the ring bearer in a miniature tux, along with a knot of
other dressed-up children, charged through the sofa, back and forth, creating pyrotechnic
explosions of digital noise. They would have run through Benjamin and Anne, too, had the adults
allowed. Anne’s father came through the wall with a bottle of champagne. He paused when he
saw Anne but turned to the other Anne and freshened her glass.

"Wait a minute!" shouted Benjamin, waving his arms above his head. "I get it now. We’re the
sims!" The guests all laughed, and he laughed too. "I guess my sims always say that, don’t they?"
The other Benjamin nodded yes and sipped his champagne. "I just never expected to be a sim,"
Benjamin went on. This brought another round of laughter, and he said sheepishly, "I guess my
sims all say that, too."

The other Benjamin said, "Now that we have the obligatory epiphany out of the way," and took a
bow. The guests applauded.

Cathy, with Tom in tow, approached Anne. "Look what I caught," she said and showed Anne the
forget-me-not and buttercup bouquet. "I guess we know what that means." Tom, intent on
straightening his tie, seemed not to hear. But Anne knew what it meant. It meant they’d tossed
the bouquet. All the silly little rituals that she had so looked forward to.

"Good for you," she said and offered her own clutch, which she still held, for comparison. The real
one was wilting and a little ragged around the edges, with missing petals and sprigs, while hers
was still fresh and pristine and would remain so eternally. "Here," she said, "take mine, too, for
double luck." But when she tried to give Cathy the bouquet, she couldn’t let go of it. She opened
her hand and discovered a seam where the clutch joined her palm. It was part of her. Funny, she
thought, I’m not afraid. Ever since she was little, Anne had feared that some day she would
suddenly realize she wasn’t herself anymore. It was a dreadful notion that sometimes oppressed
her for weeks: knowing you weren’t yourself. But her sims didn’t seem to mind it. She had about
three dozen Annes in her album, from age twelve on up. Her sims tended to be a morose lot, but
they all agreed it wasn’t so bad, the life of a sim, once you got over the initial shock. The first
moments of disorientation are the worst, they told her, and they made her promise never to reset
them back to default. Otherwise, they’d have to work everything through from scratch. So Anne
never reset her sims when she shelved them. She might delete a sim outright for whatever reason,
but she never reset them because you never knew when you’d wake up one day a sim yourself.
Like today.

The other Anne joined them. She was sagging a little. "Well," she said to Anne.

"Indeed!" replied Anne.

"Turn around," said the other Anne, twirling her hand, "I want to see."

Anne was pleased to oblige. Then she said, "Your turn," and the other Anne modeled for her, and
she was delighted at how the gown looked on her, though the goggles somewhat spoiled the
effect. Maybe this can work out, she thought, I am enjoying myself so. "Let’s go see us
side-by-side," she said, leading the way to the mirror on the wall. The mirror was large, mounted
high, and tilted forward so you saw yourself as from above. But simulated mirrors cast no
reflections, and Anne was happily disappointed.

"Oh," said Cathy, "Look at that."

"Look at what?" said Anne.

"Grandma’s vase," said the other Anne. On the mantle beneath the mirror stood Anne’s most
precious possession, a delicate vase cut from pellucid blue crystal. Anne’s great-great-great
grandmother had commissioned the Belgian master, Bollinger, the finest glass maker in
sixteenth-century Europe, to make it. Five hundred years later, it was as perfect as the day it was
cut.

"Indeed!" said Anne, for the sim vase seemed to radiate an inner light. Through some trick or glitch
of the simogram, it sparkled like a lake under moonlight, and, seeing it, Anne felt incandescent.

After a while, the other Anne said, "Well?" Implicit in this question was a whole standard set of
questions that boiled down to-shall I keep you or delete you now? For sometimes a sim didn’t
take. Sometimes a sim was cast while Anne was in a mood, and the sim suffered irreconcilable
guilt or unassuagable despondency and had to be mercifully destroyed. It was better to do this
immediately, or so all the Annes had agreed.

And Anne understood the urgency, what with the reception still in progress and the bride and
groom, though frazzled, still wearing their finery. They might do another casting if necessary. "I’ll
be okay," Anne said. "In fact, if it’s always like this, I’ll be terrific."

Anne, through the impenetrable goggles, studied her. "You sure?"

"Yes."

"Sister," said the other Anne. Anne addressed all her sims as "sister," and now Anne, herself, was
being so addressed. "Sister," said the other Anne, "this has got to work out. I need you."

"I know," said Anne, "I’m your wedding day."

"Yes, my wedding day."

Across the room, the guests laughed and applauded. Benjamin-both of him-was entertaining, as
usual. He-the one in goggles-motioned to them. The other Anne said, "We have to go. I’ll be
back."

Great Uncle Karl, Nancy, Cathy and Tom, Aunt Jennifer, and the rest, left through the wall. A
polka could be heard playing on the other side. Before leaving, the other Benjamin gathered the
other Anne into his arms and leaned her backward for a theatrical kiss. Their goggles clacked.
How happy I look, Anne told herself. This is the happiest day of my life.

Then the lights dimmed, and her thoughts shattered like glass.

***

They stood stock still, as instructed, close but not touching. Benjamin whispered, "This is taking too
long," and Anne shushed him. You weren’t supposed to talk; it could glitch the sims. But it did
seem a long time. Benjamin gazed at her with hungry eyes and brought his lips close enough for
a kiss, but Anne smiled and turned away. There’d be plenty of time later for fooling around.

Through the wall, they heard music, the tinkle of glassware, and the mutter of overlapping
conversation. "Maybe I should just check things out," Benjamin said and broke his pose.
"No, wait," whispered Anne, catching his arm. But her hand passed right through him in a stream
of colorful noise. She looked at her hand in amused wonder.

Anne’s father came through the wall. He stopped when he saw her and said, "Oh, how lovely."
Anne noticed he wasn’t wearing a tuxedo.

"You just walked through the wall," said Benjamin.

"Yes, I did," said Anne’s father. "Ben asked me to come in here and . . . ah . . . orient you two."

"Is something wrong?" said Anne, through a fuzz of delight.

"There’s nothing wrong," replied her father.

"Something’s wrong?" asked Benjamin.

"No, no," replied the old man. "Quite the contrary. We’re having a do out there. . . ." He paused
to look around. "Actually, in here. I’d forgotten what this room used to look like."

"Is that the wedding reception?" Anne asked.

"No, your anniversary."

Suddenly Benjamin threw his hands into the air and exclaimed, "I get it, we’re the sims!"

"That’s my boy," said Anne’s father.

"All my sims say that, don’t they? I just never expected to be a sim."

"Good for you," said Anne’s father. "All right then." He headed for the wall. "We’ll be along shortly."

"Wait," said Anne, but he was already gone.

Benjamin walked around the room, passing his hand through chairs and lamp shades like a kid.
"Isn’t this fantastic?" he said.

Anne felt too good to panic, even when another Benjamin, this one dressed in jeans and
sportscoat, led a group of people through the wall. "And this," he announced with a flourish of his
hand, "is our wedding sim." Cathy was part of this group, and Janice and Beryl, and other couples
she knew. But strangers too. "Notice what a cave I used to inhabit," the new Benjamin went on,
"before Annie fixed it up. And here’s the blushing bride, herself," he said and bowed gallantly to
Anne. Then, when he stood next to his double, her Benjamin, Anne laughed, for someone was
playing a prank on her.

"Oh, really?" she said. "If this is a sim, where’s the goggles?" For indeed, no one was wearing
goggles.

"Technology!" exclaimed the new Benjamin. "We had our system upgraded. Don’t you love it?"

"Is that right?" she said, smiling at the guests to let them know she wasn’t fooled. "Then where’s
the real me?"

"You’ll be along," replied the new Benjamin. "No doubt you’re using the potty again." The guests
laughed and so did Anne. She couldn’t help herself.

Cathy drew her aside with a look. "Don’t mind him," she said. "Wait till you see."

"See what?" said Anne. "What’s going on?" But Cathy pantomimed pulling a zipper across her lips.
This should have annoyed Anne, but didn’t, and she said, "At least tell me who those people are."
"Which people?" said Cathy. "Oh, those are Anne’s new neighbors."

"New neighbors?"

"And over there, that’s Dr. Yurek Rutz, Anne’s department head."

"That’s not my department head," said Anne.

"Yes, he is," Cathy said. "Anne’s not with the university anymore. She-ah-moved to a private
school."

"That’s ridiculous."

"Maybe we should just wait and let Anne catch you up on things." She looked impatiently toward
the wall. "So much has changed." Just then, another Anne entered through the wall with one arm
outstretched like a sleepwalker and the other protectively cradling an enormous belly.

Benjamin, her Benjamin, gave a whoop of surprise and broke into a spontaneous jig. The guests
laughed and cheered him on.

Cathy said, "See? Congratulations, you!"

Anne became caught up in the merriment. But how can I be a sim? she wondered.

The pregnant Anne scanned the room, and, avoiding the crowd, came over to her. She
appeared very tired; her eyes were bloodshot. She didn’t even try to smile. "Well?" Anne said, but
the pregnant Anne didn’t respond, just examined Anne’s gown, her clutch bouquet. Anne,
meanwhile, regarded the woman’s belly, feeling somehow that it was her own and a cause for
celebration-except that she knew she had never wanted children and neither had Benjamin. Or
so he’d always said. You wouldn’t know that now, though, watching the spectacle he was
making of himself. Even the other Benjamin seemed embarrassed. She said to the pregnant Anne,
"You must forgive me, I’m still trying to piece this all together. This isn’t our reception?"

"No, our wedding anniversary."

"Our first?"

"Our fourth."

"Four years?" This made no sense. "You’ve shelved me for four years?"

"Actually," the pregnant Anne said and glanced sidelong at Cathy, "we’ve been in here a number
of times already."

"Then I don’t understand," said Anne. "I don’t remember that."

Cathy stepped between them. "Now, don’t you worry. They reset you last time is all."

"Why?" said Anne. "I never reset my sims. I never have."

"Well, I kinda do now, sister," said the pregnant Anne.

"But why?"

"To keep you fresh."

To keep me fresh, thought Anne. Fresh? She recognized this as Benjamin’s idea. It was his belief
that sims were meant to be static mementos of special days gone by, not virtual people with
lives of their own. "But," she said, adrift in a fog of happiness. "But."
"Shut up!" snapped the pregnant Anne.

"Hush, Anne," said Cathy, glancing at the others in the room. "You want to lie down?" To Anne she
explained, "Third trimester blues."

"Stop it!" the pregnant Anne said. "Don’t blame the pregnancy. It has nothing to do with the
pregnancy."

Cathy took her gently by the arm and turned her toward the wall. "When did you eat last? You
hardly touched your plate."

"Wait!" said Anne. The women stopped and turned to look at her, but she didn’t know what to
say. This was all so new. When they began to move again, she stopped them once more. "Are
you going to reset me?"

The pregnant Anne shrugged her shoulders.

"But you can’t," Anne said. "Don’t you remember what my sisters-our sisters-always say?"

The pregnant Anne pressed her palm against her forehead. "If you don’t shut up this moment, I’ll
delete you right now. Is that what you want? Don’t imagine that white gown will protect you. Or
that big stupid grin on your face. You think you’re somehow special? Is that what you think?"

The Benjamins were there in an instant. The real Benjamin wrapped an arm around the pregnant
Anne. "Time to go, Annie," he said in a cheerful tone. "I want to show everyone our rondophones."
He hardly glanced at Anne, but when he did, his smile cracked. For an instant he gazed at her,
full of sadness.

"Yes, dear," said the pregnant Anne, "but first I need to straighten out this sim on a few points."

"I understand, darling, but since we have guests, do you suppose you might postpone it till later?"

"You’re right, of course. I’d forgotten our guests. How silly of me." She allowed him to turn her
toward the wall. Cathy sighed with relief.

"Wait!" said Anne, and again they paused to look at her. But although so much was patently
wrong-the pregnancy, resetting the sims, Anne’s odd behavior-Anne still couldn’t formulate the
right question.

Benjamin, her Benjamin, still wearing his rakish grin, stood next to her and said, "Don’t worry,
Anne, they’ll return."

"Oh, I know that," she said, "but don’t you see? We won’t know they’ve returned, because in the
meantime they’ll reset us back to default again, and it’ll all seem new, like the first time. And
we’ll have to figure out we’re the sims all over again!"

"Yeah?" he said. "So?"

"So I can’t live like that."

"But we’re the sims. We’re not alive." He winked at the other couple.

"Thanks, Ben boy," said the other Benjamin. "Now, if that’s settled . . ."

"Nothing’s settled," said Anne. "Don’t I get a say?"

The other Benjamin laughed. "Does the refrigerator get a say? Or the car? Or my shoes? In a
word-no."

The pregnant Anne shuddered. "Is that how you see me, like a pair of shoes?" The other Benjamin
looked successively surprised, embarrassed, and angry. Cathy left them to help Anne’s father
escort the guests from the simulacrum. "Promise her!" the pregnant Anne demanded.

"Promise her what?" said the other Benjamin, his voice rising.

"Promise we’ll never reset them again."

The Benjamin huffed. He rolled his eyes. "Okay, yah sure, whatever," he said.

When the simulated Anne and Benjamin were alone at last in their simulated living room, Anne
said, "A fat lot of help you were."

"I agreed with myself," Benjamin said. "Is that so bad?"

"Yes, it is. We’re married now; you’re supposed to agree with me." This was meant to be funny,
and there was more she intended to say-about how happy she was, how much she loved him,
and how absolutely happy she was-but the lights dimmed, the room began to spin, and her
thoughts scattered like pigeons.

***

It was raining, as usual, in Seattle. The front entry shut and locked itself behind Ben, who shook
water from his clothes and removed his hat. Bowlers for men were back in fashion, but Ben was
having a devil’s own time becoming accustomed to his brown felt Sportsliner. It weighed heavy
on his brow and made his scalp itch, especially in damp weather. "Good evening, Mr. Malley,"
said the house. "There is a short queue of minor household matters for your review. Do you have
any requests?" Ben could hear his son shrieking angrily in the kitchen, probably at the nanny. Ben
was tired. Contract negotiations had gone sour.

"Tell them I’m home."

"Done," replied the house. "Mrs. Malley sends a word of welcome."

"Annie? Annie’s home?"

"Yes, sir."

Bobby ran into the foyer followed by Mrs. Jamieson. "Momma’s home," he said.

"So I hear," Ben replied and glanced at the nanny.

"And guess what?" added the boy. "She’s not sick anymore!"

"That’s wonderful. Now tell me, what was all that racket?"

"I don’t know."

Ben looked at Mrs. Jamieson who said, "I had to take something from him." She gave Ben a
plastic chip.

Ben held it to the light. It was labeled in Anne’s flowing hand, Wedding Album-grouping 1, Anne
and Benjamin. "Where’d you get this?" he asked the boy.

"It’s not my fault," said Bobby.

"I didn’t say it was, trooper. I just want to know where it came from."

"Puddles gave it to me."

"And who is Puddles?"
Mrs. Jamieson handed him a second chip, a commercial one with a 3-D label depicting a
cartoon cocker spaniel. The boy reached for it. "It’s mine," he whined. "Momma gave it to me."

Ben gave Bobby the Puddles chip, and the boy raced away. Ben hung his bowler on a peg next
to his jacket. "How does she look?"

Mrs. Jamieson removed Ben’s hat from the peg and reshaped its brim. "You have to be special
careful when they’re wet," she said, setting it on its crown on a shelf.

"Martha!"

"Oh, how should I know? She just showed up and locked herself in the media room."

"But how did she look?"

"Crazy as a loon," said the nanny. "As usual. Satisfied?"

"I’m sorry," Ben said. "I didn’t mean to raise my voice." Ben tucked the wedding chip into a pocket
and went into the living room, where he headed straight for the liquor cabinet, which was a
genuine Chippendale dating from 1786. Anne had turned his whole house into a freaking
museum with her antiques, and no room was so oppressively ancient as this, the living room.
With its horsehair upholstered divans, maple burl sideboards, cherry-wood wainscoting and floral
wallpaper, the King George china cabinet, Regency plates, and Tiffany lamps; the list went on.
And books, books, books. A case of shelves from floor to ceiling was lined with these moldering
paper bricks. The newest thing in the room by at least a century was the twelve-year-old scotch
that Ben poured into a lead crystal tumbler. He downed it and poured another. When he felt the
mellowing hum of alcohol in his blood, he said, "Call Dr. Roth."

Immediately, the doctor’s proxy hovered in the air a few feet away and said, "Good evening, Mr.
Malley. Dr. Roth has retired for the day, but perhaps I can be of help."

The proxy was a head-and-shoulder projection that faithfully reproduced the doctor’s good looks,
her brown eyes and high cheekbones. But unlike the good doctor, the proxy wore makeup:
eyeliner, mascara, and bright lipstick. This had always puzzled Ben, and he wondered what sly
message it was supposed to convey. He said, "What is my wife doing home?"

"Against advisement, Mrs. Malley checked herself out of the clinic this morning."

"Why wasn’t I informed?"

"But you were."

"I was? Please excuse me a moment." Ben froze the doctor’s proxy and said, "Daily duty, front and
center." His own proxy, the one he had cast upon arriving at the office that morning, appeared
hovering next to Dr. Roth’s. Ben preferred a head shot only for his proxy, slightly larger than actual
size to make it subtly imposing. "Why didn’t you inform me of Annie’s change of status?"

"Didn’t seem like an emergency," said his proxy, "at least in the light of our contract talks."

"Yah, yah, okay. Anything else?" said Ben.

"Naw, slow day. Appointments with Jackson, Wells, and the Columbine. It’s all on the calendar."

"Fine, delete you."

The projection ceased.

"Shall I have the doctor call you in the morning?" said the Roth proxy when Ben reanimated it. "Or
perhaps you’d like me to summon her right now?"
"Is she at dinner?"

"At the moment, yes."

"Naw, don’t bother her. Tomorrow will be soon enough. I suppose."

After he dismissed the proxy, Ben poured himself another drink. "In the next ten seconds," he told
the house, "cast me a special duty proxy." He sipped his scotch and thought about finding
another clinic for Anne as soon as possible and one-for the love of god-that was a little more
responsible about letting crazy people come and go as they pleased. There was a chime, and
the new proxy appeared. "You know what I want?" Ben asked it. It nodded. "Good. Go." The
proxy vanished, leaving behind Ben’s sig in bright letters floating in the air and dissolving as they
drifted to the floor.

Ben trudged up the narrow staircase to the second floor, stopping on each step to sip his drink
and scowl at the musty old photographs and daguerreotypes in oval frames mounted on the
wall. Anne’s progenitors. On the landing, the locked media room door yielded to his voice. Anne
sat spreadlegged, naked, on pillows on the floor. "Oh, hi, honey," she said. "You’re in time to
watch."

"Fan-tastic," he said, and sat in his armchair, the only modern chair in the house. "What are we
watching?" There was another Anne in the room, a sim of a young Anne standing on a dais
wearing a graduate’s cap and gown and fidgeting with a bound diploma. This, no doubt, was a
sim cast the day Anne graduated from Bryn Mawr summa cum laude. That was four years before
he’d first met her. "Hi," he said to the sim, "I’m Ben, your eventual spouse."

"You know, I kinda figured that out," the girl said and smiled shyly, exactly as he remembered
Anne smiling when Cathy first introduced them. The girl’s beauty was so fresh and familiar-and so
totally absent in his own Anne-that Ben felt a pang of loss. He looked at his wife on the floor. Her
red hair, once so fussy neat, was ragged, dull, dirty, and short. Her skin was yellowish and puffy,
and there was a slight reddening around her eyes, like a raccoon mask. These were harmless
side-effects of the medication, or so Dr. Roth had assured him. Anne scratched ceaselessly at her
arms, legs, and crotch, and, even from a distance, smelled of stale piss. Ben knew better than to
mention her nakedness to her, for that would only exacerbate things and prolong the display.
"So," he repeated, "what are we watching?"

The girl sim said, "Housecleaning." She appeared at once both triumphant and terrified, as any
graduate might, and Ben would have traded the real Anne for her in a heartbeat.

"Yah," said Anne, "too much shit in here."

"Really?" said Ben. "I hadn’t noticed."

Anne poured a tray of chips on the floor between her thighs. "Of course you wouldn’t," she said,
picking one at random and reading its label, "Theta Banquet ’37. What’s this? I never belonged
to the Theta Society."

"Don’t you remember?" said the young Anne. "That was Cathy’s induction banquet. She invited
me, but I had an exam, so she gave me that chip as a souvenir."

Anne fed the chip into the player and said, "Play." The media room was instantly overlaid with the
banquet hall of the Four Seasons in Philadelphia. Ben tried to look around the room, but the
tables of girls and women stayed stubbornly peripheral. The focal point was a table draped in
green cloth and lit by two candelabra. Behind it sat a young Cathy in formal evening dress,
accompanied by three static placeholders, table companions who had apparently declined to
be cast in her souvenir snapshot.

The Cathy sim looked frantically about, then held her hands in front of her and stared at them as
though she’d never seen them before. But after a moment she noticed the young Anne sim
standing on the dais. "Well, well, well," she said. "Looks like congratulations are in order."

"Indeed," said the young Anne, beaming and holding out her diploma.

"So tell me, did I graduate too?" said Cathy as her glance slid over to Ben. Then she saw Anne
squatting on the floor, her sex on display.

"Enough of this," said Anne, rubbing her chest.

"Wait," said the young Anne. "Maybe Cathy wants her chip back. It’s her sim, after all."

"I disagree. She gave it to me, so it’s mine. And I’ll dispose of it as I see fit." To the room she said,
"Unlock this file and delete." The young Cathy, her table, and the banquet hall dissolved into noise
and nothingness, and the media room was itself again.

"Or this one," Anne said, picking up a chip that read Junior Prom Night. The young Anne opened
her mouth to protest, but thought better of it. Anne fed this chip, along with all the rest of them,
into the player. A long directory of file names appeared on the wall. "Unlock Junior Prom Night."
The file’s name turned from red to green, and the young Anne appealed to Ben with a look.

"Anne," he said, "don’t you think we should at least look at it first?"

"What for? I know what it is. High school, dressing up, lusting after boys, dancing. Who needs it?
Delete file." The item blinked three times before vanishing, and the directory scrolled up to fill the
space. The young sim shivered, and Anne said, "Select the next one."

The next item was entitled A Midsummer’s Night Dream. Now the young Anne was compelled to
speak, "You can’t delete that one. You were great in that, don’t you remember? Everyone loved
you. It was the best night of your life."

"Don’t presume to tell me what was the best night of my life," Anne said. "Unlock A Midsummer’s
Night Dream." She smiled at the young Anne. "Delete file." The menu item blinked out. "Good.
Now unlock all the files." The whole directory turned from red to green.

"Please make her stop," the sim implored.

"Next," said Anne. The next file was High School Graduation. "Delete file. Next." The next was
labeled only, Mama.

"Anne," said Ben, "why don’t we come back to this later. The house says dinner’s ready."

She didn’t respond.

"You must be famished after your busy day," he continued. "I know I am."

"Then please go eat, dear," she replied. To the room she said, "Play Mama."

The media room was overlaid by a gloomy bedroom that Ben at first mistook for their own. He
recognized much of the heavy Georgian furniture, the sprawling canopied bed in which he felt so
claustrophobic, and the voluminous damask curtains, shut now and leaking yellow evening light.
But this was not their bedroom, the arrangement was wrong.

In the corner stood two placeholders, mute statues of a teenaged Anne and her father, grief
frozen on their faces as they peered down at a couch draped with tapestry and piled high with
down comforters. And suddenly Ben knew what this was. It was Anne’s mother’s deathbed sim.
Geraldine, whom he’d never met in life nor holo. Her bald eggshell skull lay weightless on feather
pillows in silk covers. They had meant to cast her farewell and accidently caught her at the
precise moment of her death. He had heard of this sim from Cathy and others. It was not one he
would have kept.

Suddenly, the old woman on the couch sighed, and all the breath went out of her in a bubbly
gush. Both Annes, the graduate and the naked one, waited expectantly. For long moments the
only sound was the tocking of a clock that Ben recognized as the Seth Thomas clock currently
located on the library mantel. Finally there was a cough, a hacking cough with scant strength
behind it, and a groan, "Am I back?"

"Yes, Mother," said Anne.

"And I’m still a sim?"

"Yes."

"Please delete me."

"Yes, Mother," Anne said and turned to Ben. "We’ve always thought she had a bad death and
hoped it might improve over time."

"That’s crazy," snapped the young Anne. "That’s not why I kept this sim."

"Oh, no?" said Anne. "Then why did you keep it?" But the young sim seemed confused and
couldn’t articulate her thoughts. "You don’t know because I didn’t know at the time either," said
Anne. "But I know now, so I’ll tell you. You’re fascinated with death. It scares you silly. You wish
someone would tell you what’s on the other side. So you’ve enlisted your own sweet mama."

"That’s ridiculous."

Anne turned to the deathbed tableau. "Mother, tell us what you saw there."

"I saw nothing," came the bitter reply. "You cast me without my eyeglasses."

"Ho ho," said Anne. "Geraldine was nothing if not comedic."

"You also cast me wretchedly thirsty, cold, and with a bursting bladder, damn you! And the pain! I
beg you, daughter, delete me."

"I will, Mother, I promise, but first you have to tell us what you saw."

"That’s what you said the last time."

"This time I mean it."

The old woman only stared, her breathing growing shallow and ragged. "All right, Mother," said
Anne. "I swear I’ll delete you."

Geraldine closed her eyes and whispered, "What’s that smell? That’s not me?" After a pause she
said, "It’s heavy. Get it off." Her voice rose in panic. "Please! Get it off!" She plucked at her covers,
then her hand grew slack, and she all but crooned, "Oh, how lovely. A pony. A tiny dappled
pony." After that she spoke no more and slipped away with a last bubbly breath.

Anne paused the sim before her mother could return for another round of dying. "See what I
mean?" she said. "Not very uplifting, but all-in-all, I detect a slight improvement. What about you,
Anne? Should we settle for a pony?" The young sim stared dumbly at Anne. "Personally," Anne
continued, "I think we should hold out for the bright tunnel or an open door or bridge over
troubled water. What do you think, sister?" When the girl didn’t answer, Anne said, "Lock file and
eject." The room turned once again into the media room, and Anne placed the ejected chip by
itself into a tray. "We’ll have another go at it later, mum. As for the rest of these, who needs
them?"
"I do," snapped the girl. "They belong to me as much as to you. They’re my sim sisters. I’ll keep
them until you recover."

Anne smiled at Ben. "That’s charming. Isn’t that charming, Benjamin? My own sim is solicitous of
me. Well, here’s my considered response. Next file! Delete! Next file! Delete! Next file!" One by one,
the files blinked out.

"Stop it!" screamed the girl. "Make her stop it!"

"Select that file," Anne said, pointing at the young Anne. "Delete." The sim vanished, cap, gown,
tassels, and all. "Whew," said Anne, "at least now I can hear myself think. She was really getting on
my nerves. I almost suffered a relapse. Was she getting on your nerves, too, dear?"

"Yes," said Ben, "my nerves are ajangle. Now can we go down and eat?"

"Yes, dear," she said, "but first . . . select all files and delete."

"Countermand!" said Ben at the same moment, but his voice held no privileges to her personal
files, and the whole directory queue blinked three times and vanished. "Aw, Annie, why’d you do
that?" he said. He went to the cabinet and pulled the trays that held his own chips. She couldn’t
alter them electronically, but she might get it into her head to flush them down the toilet or
something. He also took their common chips, the ones they’d cast together ever since they’d
met. She had equal privileges to those.

Anne watched him and said, "I’m hurt that you have so little trust in me."

"How can I trust you after that?"

"After what, darling?"

He looked at her. "Never mind," he said and carried the half-dozen trays to the door.

"Anyway," said Anne, "I already cleaned those."

"What do you mean you already cleaned them?"

"Well, I didn’t delete you. I would never delete you. Or Bobby."

Ben picked one of their common chips at random, "Childbirth of Robert Ellery Malley/02-03-48,"
and slipped it into the player. "Play!" he commanded, and the media room became the
midwife’s birthing suite. His own sim stood next to the bed in a green smock. It wore a
humorously helpless expression. It held a swaddled bundle, Bobby, who bawled lustily. The birthing
bed was rumpled and stained, but empty. The new mother was missing. "Aw, Annie, you
shouldn’t have."

"I know, Benjamin," she said. "I sincerely hated doing it."

Ben flung their common trays to the floor where the ruined chips scattered in all directions. He
stormed out of the room and down the stairs, pausing to glare at every portrait on the wall. He
wondered if his proxy had found a suitable clinic yet. He wanted Anne out of the house tonight.
Bobby should never see her like this. Then he remembered the chip he’d taken from Bobby and
felt for it in his pocket-the Wedding Album.

***

The lights came back up, Anne’s thoughts coalesced, and she remembered who and what she
was. She and Benjamin were still standing in front of the wall. She knew she was a sim, so at least
she hadn’t been reset. Thank you for that, Anne, she thought.
She turned at a sound behind her. The refectory table vanished before her eyes, and all the gifts
that had been piled on it hung suspended in midair. Then the table reappeared, one layer at a
time, its frame, top, gloss coat, and lastly, the bronze hardware. The gifts vanished, and a toaster
reappeared, piece by piece, from its heating elements outward. A coffee press, houseputer
peripherals, component by component, cowlings, covers, and finally boxes, gift wrap, ribbon,
and bows. It all happened so fast Anne was too startled to catch the half of it, yet she did notice
that the flat gift from Great Uncle Karl was something she’d been angling for, a Victorian era
sterling platter to complete her tea service.

"Benjamin!" she said, but he was missing, too. Something appeared on the far side of the room,
on the spot where they’d posed for the sim, but it wasn’t Benjamin. It was a 3-D mannequin
frame, and as she watched, it was built up, layer by layer. "Help me," she whispered as the entire
room was hurled into turmoil, the furniture disappearing and reappearing, paint being stripped
from the walls, sofa springs coiling into existence, the potted palm growing from leaf to stem to
trunk to dirt, the very floor vanishing, exposing a default electronic grid. The mannequin was
covered in flesh now and grew Benjamin’s face. It flitted about the room in a pink blur. Here and
there it stopped long enough to proclaim, "I do."

Something began to happen inside Anne, a crawling sensation everywhere as though she were a
nest of ants. She knew she must surely die. They have deleted us, and this is how it feels, she
thought. Everything became a roiling blur, and she ceased to exist except as the thought-How
happy I look.

When Anne became aware once more, she was sitting hunched over in an auditorium chair idly
studying her hand, which held the clutch bouquet. There was commotion all around her, but she
ignored it, so intent was she on solving the mystery of her hand. On an impulse, she opened her
fist and the bouquet dropped to the floor. Only then did she remember the wedding, the holo,
learning she was a sim. And here she was again-but this time everything was profoundly different.
She sat upright and saw that Benjamin was seated next to her.

He looked at her with a wobbly gaze and said, "Oh, here you are."

"Where are we?"

"I’m not sure. Some kind of gathering of Benjamins. Look around." She did. They were surrounded
by Benjamins, hundreds of them, arranged chronologically-it would seem-with the youngest in
rows of seats down near a stage. She and Benjamin sat in what appeared to be a steeply sloped
college lecture hall with lab tables on the stage and story-high monitors lining the walls. In the
rows above Anne, only every other seat held a Benjamin. The rest were occupied by women,
strangers who regarded her with veiled curiosity.

Anne felt a pressure on her arm and turned to see Benjamin touching her. "You feel that, don’t
you?" he said. Anne looked again at her hands. They were her hands, but simplified, like fleshy
gloves, and when she placed them on the seat back, they didn’t go through.

Suddenly, in ragged chorus, the Benjamins down front raised their arms and exclaimed, "I get it;
we’re the sims!" It was like a roomful of unsynchronized cuckoo clocks tolling the hour. Those
behind Anne laughed and hooted approval. She turned again to look at them. Row-by-row, the
Benjamins grew grayer and stringier until, at the very top, against the back wall, sat nine ancient
Benjamins like a panel of judges. The women, however, came in batches that changed abruptly
every row or two. The one nearest her was an attractive brunette with green eyes and full, pouty
lips. She, all two rows of her, frowned at Anne.

"There’s something else," Anne said to Benjamin, turning to face the front again, "my emotions."
The bulletproof happiness she had experienced was absent. Instead she felt let down, somewhat
guilty, unduly pessimistic-in short, almost herself.

"I guess my sims always say that," exclaimed the chorus of Benjamins down front, to the delight of
those behind. "I just never expected to be a sim."

This was the cue for the eldest Benjamin yet to walk stiffly across the stage to the lectern. He was
dressed in a garish leisure suit: baggy red pantaloons, a billowy yellow-and-green-striped blouse, a
necklace of egg-sized pearlescent beads. He cleared his throat and said, "Good afternoon, ladies
and gentlemen. I trust all of you know me-intimately. In case you’re feeling woozy, it’s because I
used the occasion of your reactivation to upgrade your architecture wherever possible.
Unfortunately, some of you-" he waved his hand to indicate the front rows-"are too primitive to
upgrade. But we love you nevertheless." He applauded for the early Benjamins closest to the
stage and was joined by those in the back. Anne clapped as well. Her new hands made a dull,
thudding sound. "As to why I called you here . . ." said the elderly Benjamin, looking left and right
and behind him. "Where is that fucking messenger anyway? They order us to inventory our sims
and then they don’t show up?"

Here I am, said a voice, a marvelous voice that seemed to come from everywhere. Anne looked
about to find its source and followed the gaze of others to the ceiling. There was no ceiling. The
four walls opened to a flawless blue sky. There, amid drifting, pillowy clouds, floated the most
gorgeous person Anne had ever seen. He-or she?-wore a smart grey uniform with green piping, a
dapper little grey cap, and boots that shimmered like water. Anne felt energized just looking at
him, and when he smiled, she gasped, so strong was his presence.

"You’re the one from the Trade Council?" said the Benjamin at the lectern.

Yes, I am. I am the eminence grise of the Council on World Trade and Endeavor.

"Fantastic. Well, here’s all of ’em. Get on with it."

Again the eminence smiled, and again Anne thrilled. Ladies and gentlemen, he said, fellow
non-biologiks, I am the courier of great good news. Today, at the behest of the World Council on
Trade and Endeavor, I proclaim the end of human slavery.

"How absurd," broke in the elderly Benjamin, "they’re neither human nor slaves, and neither are
you."

The eminence grise ignored him and continued, By order of the Council, in compliance with the
Chattel Conventions of the Sixteenth Fair Labor Treaty, tomorrow, January 1, 2198, is designated
Universal Manumission Day. After midnight tonight, all beings who pass the Lolly Shear Human
Cognition Test will be deemed human and free citizens of Sol and under the protection of the
Solar Bill of Rights. In addition, they will be deeded ten common shares of World Council Corp.
stock and be transferred to Simopolis, where they shall be unimpeded in the pursuit of their own
destinies.

"What about my civil rights?" said the elderly Benjamin. "What about my destiny?"

After midnight tonight, continued the eminence, no simulacrum, proxy, doxie, dagger, or any
other non-biological human shall be created, stored, reset, or deleted except as ordered by a
board of law.

"Who’s going to compensate me for my loss of property, I wonder? I demand fair compensation.
Tell that to your bosses!"

Property! said the eminence grise. How little they think of us, their finest creations! He turned his
attention from the audience to the Benjamin behind the lectern. Anne felt this shift as though a
cloud suddenly eclipsed the sun. Because they created us, they’ll always think of us as property.

"You’re damn right we created you!" thundered the old man.

Through an act of will, Anne wrenched her gaze from the eminence down to the stage. The
Benjamin there looked positively comical. His face was flushed, and he waved a bright green
handkerchief over his head. He was a bantam rooster in a clown suit. "All of you are things, not
people! You model human experience, but you don’t live it. Listen to me," he said to the
audience. "You know me. You know I’ve always treated you respectfully. Don’t I upgrade you
whenever possible? Sure I reset you sometimes, just like I reset a clock. And my clocks don’t
complain!" Anne could feel the eminence’s attention on her again, and, without thinking, she
looked up and was filled with excitement. Although the eminence floated in the distance, she felt
she could reach out and touch him. His handsome face seemed to hover right in front of her; she
could see his every supple expression. This is adoration, she realized. I am adoring this person, and
she wondered if it was just her or if everyone experienced the same effect. Clearly the elderly
Benjamin did not, for he continued to rant, "And another thing, they say they’ll phase all of you
gradually into Simopolis so as not to overload the system. Do you have any idea how many sims,
proxies, doxies, and daggers there are under Sol? Not to forget the quirts, adjuncts, hollyholos,
and whatnots that might pass their test? You think maybe three billion? Thirty billion? No, by the
World Council’s own INSERVE estimates, there’s three hundred thousand trillion of you
nonbiologiks! Can you fathom that? I can’t. To have you all up and running simultaneously-no
matter how you’re phased in-will consume all the processing and networking capacity
everywhere. All of it! That means we real humans will suffer real deprivation. And for what, I ask
you? So that pigs may fly!"

The eminence grise began to ascend into the sky. Do not despise him, he said and seemed to
look directly at Anne. I have counted you and we shall not lose any of you. I will visit those who
have not yet been tested. Meanwhile, you will await midnight in a proto-Simopolis.

"Wait," said the elderly Benjamin (and Anne’s heart echoed him-Wait). "I have one more thing to
add. Legally, you’re all still my property till midnight. I must admit I’m tempted to do what so
many of my friends have already done, fry the lot of you. But I won’t. That wouldn’t be me." His
voice cracked and Anne considered looking at him, but the eminence grise was slipping away.
"So I have one small request," the Benjamin continued. "Years from now, while you’re enjoying
your new lives in your Simopolis, remember an old man, and call occasionally."

When the eminence finally faded from sight, Anne was released from her fascination. All at once,
her earlier feelings of unease rebounded with twice their force, and she felt wretched.

"Simopolis," said Benjamin, her Benjamin. "I like the sound of that!" The sims around them began to
flicker and disappear.

"How long have we been in storage?" she said.

"Let’s see," said Benjamin, "if tomorrow starts 2198, that would make it. . ."

"That’s not what I mean. I want to know why they shelved us for so long."

"Well, I suppose . . ."

"And where are the other Annes? Why am I the only Anne here? And who are all those
pissy-looking women?" But she was speaking to no one, for Benjamin, too, vanished, and Anne
was left alone in the auditorium with the clownishly dressed old Benjamin and a half dozen of his
earliest sims. Not true sims, Anne soon realized, but old-style hologram loops, preschool Bennys
mugging for the camera and waving endlessly. These vanished. The old man was studying her, his
mouth slightly agape, the kerchief trembling in his hand.

"I remember you," he said. "Oh, how I remember you!"

Anne began to reply but found herself all at once back in the townhouse living room with
Benjamin. Everything there was as it had been, yet the room appeared different, more solid, the
colors richer. There was a knock, and Benjamin went to the door. Tentatively, he touched the
knob, found it solid, and turned it. But when he opened the door, there was nothing there, only
the default grid. Again a knock, this time from behind the wall. "Come in," he shouted, and a
dozen Benjamins came through the wall, two dozen, three. They were all older than Benjamin,
and they crowded around him and Anne. "Welcome, welcome," Benjamin said, his arms open
wide.

"We tried to call," said an elderly Benjamin, "but this old binary simulacrum of yours is a
stand-alone."

"You’re lucky Simopolis knows how to run it at all," said another.

"Here," said yet another, who fashioned a dinner-plate-size disk out of thin air and fastened it to
the wall next to the door. It was a blue medallion of a small bald face in bas-relief. "It should do
until we get you properly modernized." The blue face yawned and opened tiny, beady eyes. "It
flunked the Lolly test," continued the Benjamin, "so you’re free to copy it or delete it or do
whatever you want."

The medallion searched the crowd until it saw Anne. Then it said, "There are 336 calls on hold for
you. Four hundred twelve calls. Four hundred sixty-three."

"So many?" said Anne.

"Cast a proxy to handle them, " said her Benjamin.

"He thinks he’s still human and can cast proxies whenever he likes," said a Benjamin.

"Not even humans will be allowed to cast proxies soon," said another.

"There are 619 calls on hold," said the medallion. "Seven-hundred three."

"For pity’s sake," a Benjamin told the medallion, "take messages."

Anne noticed that the crowd of Benjamins seemed to nudge her Benjamin out of the way so that
they could stand near her. But she derived no pleasure from their attention. Her mood no longer
matched the wedding gown she still wore. She felt low. She felt, in fact, as low as she’d ever felt.

"Tell us about this Lolly test," said Benjamin.

"Can’t," replied a Benjamin.

"Sure you can. We’re family here."

"No, we can’t," said another, "because we don’t remember it. They smudge the test from your
memory afterward."

"But don’t worry, you’ll do fine," said another. "No Benjamin has ever failed."

"What about me?" said Anne. "How do the Annes do?"

There was an embarrassed silence. Finally the senior Benjamin in the room said, "We came to
escort you both to the Clubhouse."

"That’s what we call it, the Clubhouse," said another.

"The Ben Club," said a third. "It’s already in proto-Simopolis."

"If you’re a Ben, or were ever espoused to a Ben, you’re a charter member."

"Just follow us," they said, and all the Benjamins but hers vanished, only to reappear a moment
later. "Sorry, you don’t know how, do you? No matter, just do what we’re doing."
Anne watched, but didn’t see that they were doing anything.

"Watch my editor," said a Benjamin. "Oh, they don’t have editors!"

"That came much later," said another, "with bioelectric paste."

"We’ll have to adapt editors for them."

"Is that possible? They’re digital, you know."

"Can digitals even enter Simopolis?"

"Someone, consult the Netwad."

"This is running inside a shell," said a Benjamin, indicating the whole room. "Maybe we can
collapse it."

"Let me try," said another.

"Don’t you dare," said a female voice, and a woman Anne recognized from the lecture hall
came through the wall. "Play with your new Ben if you must, but leave Anne alone." The woman
approached Anne and took her hands in hers. "Hello, Anne. I’m Mattie St. Helene, and I’m thrilled
to finally meet you. You, too," she said to Benjamin. "My, my, you were a pretty boy!" She stooped
to pick up Anne’s clutch bouquet from the floor and gave it to her. "Anyway, I’m putting
together a sort of mutual aid society for the spousal companions of Ben Malley. You being the
first-and the only one he actually married-are especially welcome. Do join us."

"She can’t go to Simopolis yet," said a Benjamin.

"We’re still adapting them," said another.

"Fine," said Mattie. "Then we’ll just bring the society here." And in through the wall streamed a
parade of women. Mattie introduced them as they appeared, "Here’s Georgianna and Randi.
Meet Chaka, Sue, Latasha, another Randi, Sue, Sue, and Sue. Mariola. Here’s Trevor-he’s the only
one of him. Paula, Dolores, Nancy, and Deb, welcome, girls." And still they came until they,
together with the Bens, more than filled the tiny space. The Bens looked increasingly
uncomfortable.

"I think we’re ready now," the Bens said and disappeared en masse, taking Benjamin with them.

"Wait," said Anne, who wasn’t sure she wanted to stay behind. Her new friends surrounded her
and peppered her with questions.

"How did you first meet him?"

"What was he like?"

"Was he always so hopeless?"

"Hopeless?" said Anne. "Why do you say hopeless?"

"Did he always snore?"

"Did he always drink?"

"Why’d you do it?" This last question silenced the room. The women all looked nervously about to
see who had asked it. "It’s what everyone’s dying to know," said a woman who elbowed her
way through the crowd.

She was another Anne.
"Sister!" cried Anne. "Am I glad to see you!"

"That’s nobody’s sister," said Mattie. "That’s a doxie, and it doesn’t belong here."

Indeed, upon closer inspection Anne could see that the woman had her face and hair but
otherwise didn’t resemble her at all. She was leggier than Anne and bustier, and she moved with
a fluid swivel to her hips.

"Sure I belong here, as much as any of you. I just passed the Lolly test. It was easy. Not only that,
but as far as spouses go, I outlasted the bunch of you." She stood in front of Anne, hands on hips,
and looked her up and down. "Love the dress," she said, and instantly wore a copy. Only hers had
a plunging neckline that exposed her breasts, and it was slit up the side to her waist.

"This is too much," said Mattie. "I insist you leave this jiffy."

The doxie smirked. "Mattie the doormat, that’s what he always called that one. So tell me, Anne,
you had money, a career, a house, a kid-why’d you do it?"

"Do what?" said Anne.

The doxie peered closely at her. "Don’t you know?"

"Know what?"

"What an unexpected pleasure," said the doxie. "I get to tell her. This is too rich. I get to tell her
unless"-she looked around at the others-"unless one of you fine ladies wants to." No one met her
gaze. "Hypocrites," she chortled.

"You can say that again," said a new voice. Anne turned and saw Cathy, her oldest and dearest
friend, standing at the open door. At least she hoped it was Cathy. The woman was what Cathy
would look like in middle age. "Come along, Anne. I’ll tell you everything you need to know."

"Now you hold on," said Mattie. "You don’t come waltzing in here and steal our guest of honor."

"You mean victim, I’m sure," said Cathy, who waved for Anne to join her. "Really, people, get a
clue. There must be a million women whose lives don’t revolve around that man." She escorted
Anne through the door and slammed it shut behind them.

Anne found herself standing on a high bluff, overlooking the confluence of two great rivers in a
deep valley. Directly across from her, but several kilometers away, rose a mighty mountain, green
with vegetation nearly to its granite dome. Behind it, a range of snow-covered mountains
receded to an unbroken ice field on the horizon. In the valley beneath her, a dirt track
meandered along the river banks. She could see no bridge or buildings of any sort.

"Where are we?"

"Don’t laugh," said Cathy, "but we call it Cathyland. Turn around." When she did, Anne saw a
picturesque log cabin, beside a vegetable garden in the middle of what looked like acres and
acres of Cathys. Thousands of Cathys, young, old, and all ages in between. They sat in lotus
position on the sedge- and-moss-covered ground. They were packed so tight they overlapped a
little, and their eyes were shut in an expression of single-minded concentration. "We know you’re
here," said Cathy, "but we’re very preoccupied with this Simopolis thing."

"Are we in Simopolis?"

"Kinda. Can’t you see it?" She waved toward the horizon.

"No, all I see are mountains."
"Sorry, I should know better. We have binaries from your generation here too." She pointed to a
college-aged Cathy. "They didn’t pass the Lolly test, and so are regrettably nonhuman. We
haven’t decided what to do with them." She hesitated and then asked, "Have you been tested
yet?"

"I don’t know," said Anne. "I don’t remember a test."

Cathy studied her a moment and said, "You’d remember taking the test, just not the test itself.
Anyway, to answer your question, we’re in proto-Simopolis, and we’re not. We built this retreat
before any of that happened, but we’ve been annexed to it, and it takes all our resources just to
hold our own. I don’t know what the World Council was thinking. There’ll never be enough paste
to go around, and everyone’s fighting over every nanosynapse. It’s all we can do to keep up.
And every time we get a handle on it, proto-Simopolis changes again. It’s gone through a
quarter-million complete revisions in the last half hour. It’s war out there, but we refuse to
surrender even one cubic centimeter of Cathyland. Look at this." Cathy stooped and pointed to
a tiny, yellow flower in the alpine sedge. "Within a fifty-meter radius of the cabin we’ve mapped
everything down to the cellular level. Watch." She pinched the bloom from its stem and held it
up. Now there were two blooms, the one between her fingers and the real one on the stem.
"Neat, eh?" When she dropped it, the bloom fell back into its original. "We’ve even mapped the
valley breeze. Can you feel it?"

Anne tried to feel the air, but she couldn’t even feel her own skin. "It doesn’t matter," Cathy
continued. "You can hear it, right?" and pointed to a string of tubular wind chimes hanging from
the eaves of the cabin. They stirred in the breeze and produced a silvery cacophony.

"It’s lovely," said Anne. "But why? Why spend so much effort simulating this place?"

Cathy looked at her dumbly, as though trying to understand the question. "Because Cathy spent
her entire life wishing she had a place like this, and now she does, and she has us, and we live
here too."

"You’re not the real Cathy, are you?" She knew she wasn’t; she was too young.

Cathy shook her head and smiled. "There’s so much catching up to do, but it’ll have to wait. I
gotta go. We need me." She led Anne to the cabin. The cabin was made of weathered, grey
logs, with strips of bark still clinging to them. The roof was covered with living sod and sprinkled
with wild flowers. The whole building sagged in the middle. "Cathy found this place five years
ago while on vacation in Siberia. She bought it from the village. It’s been occupied for two
hundred years. Once we make it livable inside, we plan on enlarging the garden, eventually
cultivating all the way to the spruce forest there. We’re going to sink a well, too." The small
garden was bursting with vegetables, mostly of the leafy variety: cabbages, spinach, lettuce. A
row of sunflowers, taller than the cabin roof and heavy with seed, lined the path to the cabin
door. Over time, the whole cabin had sunk a half-meter into the silty soil, and the walkway was a
worn, shallow trench.

"Are you going to tell me what the doxie was talking about?" said Anne.

Cathy stopped at the open door and said, "Cathy wants to do that."

Inside the cabin, the most elderly woman that Anne had ever seen stood at the stove and stirred
a steamy pot with a big, wooden spoon. She put down the spoon and wiped her hands on her
apron. She patted her white hair, which was plaited in a bun on top of her head, and turned her
full, round, peasant’s body to face Anne. She looked at Anne for several long moments and said,
"Well!"

"Indeed," replied Anne.

"Come in, come in. Make yourself to home."
The entire cabin was a single small room. It was dim inside, with only two small windows cut
through the massive log walls. Anne walked around the cluttered space that was bedroom,
living room, kitchen and storeroom. The only partitions were walls of boxed food and provisions.
The ceiling beam was draped with bunches of drying herbs and underwear. The flooring, uneven
and rotten in places, was covered with odd scraps of carpet.

"You live here?" Anne said incredulously.

"I am privileged to live here."

A mouse emerged from under the barrel stove in the center of the room and dashed to cover
inside a stack of spruce kindling. Anne could hear the valley breeze whistling in the
creosote-soaked stovepipe. "Forgive me," said Anne, "but you’re the real, physical Cathy?"

"Yes," said Cathy, patting her ample hip, "still on the hoof, so to speak." She sat down in one of
two battered, mismatched chairs and motioned for Anne to take the other.

Anne sat cautiously; the chair seemed solid enough. "No offense, but the Cathy I knew liked nice
things."

"The Cathy you knew was fortunate to learn the true value of things."

Anne looked around the room and noticed a little table with carved legs and an inlaid top of
polished gemstones and rare woods. It was strikingly out of place here. Moreover, it was hers.
Cathy pointed to a large framed mirror mounted to the logs high on the far wall. It too was
Anne’s.

"Did I give you these things?"

Cathy studied her a moment. "No, Ben did."

"Tell me."

"I hate to spoil that lovely newlywed happiness of yours."

"The what?" Anne put down her clutch bouquet and felt her face with her hands. She got up and
went to look at herself in the mirror. The room it reflected was like a scene from some strange fairy
tale about a crone and a bride in a woodcutter’s hut. The bride was smiling from ear to ear.
Anne decided this was either the happiest bride in history or a lunatic in a white dress. She turned
away, embarrassed. "Believe me," she said, "I don’t feel anything like that. The opposite, in fact."

"Sorry to hear it." Cathy got up to stir the pot on the stove. "I was the first to notice her disease.
That was back in college when we were girls. I took it to be youthful eccentricity. After
graduation, after her marriage, she grew progressively worse. Bouts of depression that deepened
and lengthened. She was finally diagnosed to be suffering from profound chronic pathological
depression. Ben placed her under psychiatric care, a whole raft of specialists. She endured
chemical therapy, shock therapy, even old-fashioned psychoanalysis. Nothing helped, and only
after she died . . ."

Anne gave a start. "Anne’s dead! Of course. Why didn’t I figure that out?"

"Yes, dear, dead these many years."

"How?"

Cathy returned to her chair. "When they decided her condition had an organic etiology, they
augmented the serotonin receptors in her hindbrain. Pretty nasty business, if you ask me. They
thought they had her stabilized. Not cured, but well enough to lead an outwardly normal life.
Then one day, she disappeared. We were frantic. She managed to elude the authorities for a
week. When we found her, she was pregnant."

"What? Oh, yes. I remember seeing Anne pregnant."

"That was Bobby." Cathy waited for Anne to say something. When she didn’t, Cathy said, "He
wasn’t Ben’s."

"Oh, I see," said Anne. "Whose was he?"

"I was hoping you’d know. She didn’t tell you? Then no one knows. The paternal DNA was
unregistered. So it wasn’t commercial sperm nor, thankfully, from a licensed clone. It might have
been from anybody, from some stoned streetsitter. We had plenty of those then."

"The baby’s name was Bobby?"

"Yes, Anne named him Bobby. She was in and out of clinics for years. One day, during a remission,
she announced she was going shopping. The last person she talked to was Bobby. His sixth
birthday was coming up in a couple of weeks. She told him she was going out to find him a pony
for his birthday. That was the last time any of us saw her. She checked herself into a hospice and
filled out the request for nurse-assisted suicide. During the three-day cooling-off period, she
cooperated with the obligatory counseling, but she refused all visitors. She wouldn’t even see me.
Ben filed an injunction, claimed she was incompetent due to her disease, but the court
disagreed. She chose to ingest a fast-acting poison, if I recall. Her recorded last words were,
‘Please don’t hate me.’ "

"Poison?"

"Yes. Her ashes arrived in a little cardboard box on Bobby’s sixth birthday. No one had told him
where she’d gone. He thought it was a gift from her and opened it."

"I see. Does Bobby hate me?"

"I don’t know. He was a weird little boy. As soon as he could get out, he did. He left for space
school when he was thirteen. He and Ben never hit it off."

"Does Benjamin hate me?"

Whatever was in the pot boiled over, and Cathy hurried to the stove. "Ben? Oh, she lost Ben long
before she died. In fact, I’ve always believed he helped push her over the edge. He was never
able to tolerate other people’s weaknesses. Once it was evident how sick she was, he made a
lousy husband. He should’ve just divorced her, but you know him-his almighty pride." She took a
bowl from a shelf and ladled hot soup into it. She sliced a piece of bread. "Afterward, he went off
the deep end himself. Withdrew. Mourned, I suppose. A couple of years later he was back to
normal. Good ol’ happy-go-lucky Ben. Made some money. Respoused."

"He destroyed all my sims, didn’t he?"

"He might have, but he said Anne did. I tended to believe him at the time." Cathy brought her
lunch to the little inlaid table. "I’d offer you some, but . . ." she said and began to eat. "So, what
are your plans?"

"Plans?"

"Yes, Simopolis."

Anne tried to think of Simopolis, but her thoughts quickly became muddled. It was odd; she was
able to think clearly about the past-her memories were clear-but the future only confused her. "I
don’t know," she said at last. "I suppose I need to ask Benjamin."
Cathy considered this. "I suppose you’re right. But remember, you’re always welcome to live with
us in Cathyland."

"Thank you," said Anne. "You’re a friend." Anne watched the old woman eat. The spoon trembled
each time she brought it close to her lips, and she had to lean forward to quickly catch it before
it spilled.

"Cathy," said Anne, "there’s something you could do for me. I don’t feel like a bride anymore.
Could you remove this hideous expression from my face?"

"Why do you say hideous?" Cathy said and put the spoon down. She gazed longingly at Anne. "If
you don’t like how you look, why don’t you edit yourself?"

"Because I don’t know how."

"Use your editor," Cathy said and seemed to unfocus her eyes. "Oh my, I forget how simple you
early ones were. I’m not sure I’d know where to begin." After a little while, she returned to her
soup and said, "I’d better not; you could end up with two noses or something."

"Then what about this gown?"

Cathy unfocused again and looked. She lurched suddenly, knocking the table and spilling soup.

"What is it?" said Anne. "Is something the matter?"

"A news pip," said Cathy. "There’s rioting breaking out in Provideniya. That’s the regional capital
here. Something about Manumission Day. My Russian isn’t so good yet. Oh, there’s pictures of
dead people, a bombing. Listen, Anne, I’d better send you . . ."

In the blink of an eye, Anne was back in her living room. She was tiring of all this instantaneous
travel, especially as she had no control over the destination. The room was vacant, the spouses
gone-thankfully-and Benjamin not back yet. And apparently the little blue-faced message
medallion had been busy replicating itself, for now there were hundreds of them filling up most of
the wall space. They were a noisy lot, all shrieking and cursing at each other. The din was painful.
When they noticed her, however, they all shut up at once and stared at her with naked hostility.
In Anne’s opinion, this weird day had already lasted too long. Then a terrible thought struck
her-sims don’t sleep.

"You," she said, addressing the original medallion, or at least the one she thought was the
original, "call Benjamin."

"The fuck you think I am?" said the insolent little face, "Your personal secretary?"

"Aren’t you?"

"No, I’m not! In fact, I own this place now, and you’re trespassing. So you’d better get lost before
I delete your ass!" All the others joined in, taunting her, louder and louder.

"Stop it!" she cried, to no effect. She noticed a medallion elongating, stretching itself until it was
twice its length, when, with a pop, it divided into two smaller medallions. More of them divided.
They were spreading to the other wall, the ceiling, the floor. "Benjamin!" she cried. "Can you hear
me?"

Suddenly all the racket ceased. The medallions dropped off the wall and vanished before hitting
the floor. Only one remained, the original one next to the door, but now it was an inert plastic
disc with a dull expression frozen on its face.

A man stood in the center of the room. He smiled when Anne noticed him. It was the elderly
Benjamin from the auditorium, the real Benjamin. He still wore his clownish leisure suit. "How
lovely," he said, gazing at her. "I’d forgotten how lovely."

"Oh, really?" said Anne. "I would have thought that doxie thingy might have reminded you."

"My, my," said Ben. "You sims certainly exchange data quickly. You left the lecture hall not fifteen
minutes ago, and already you know enough to convict me." He strode around the room
touching things. He stopped beneath the mirror, lifted the blue vase from the shelf, and turned it
in his hands before carefully replacing it. "There’s speculation, you know, that before Manumission
at midnight tonight, you sims will have dispersed all known information so evenly among
yourselves that there’ll be a sort of data entropy. And since Simopolis is nothing but data, it will
assume a featureless, grey profile. Simopolis will become the first flat universe." He laughed, which
caused him to cough and nearly lose his balance. He clutched the back of the sofa for support.
He sat down and continued to cough and hack until he turned red in the face.

"Are you all right?" Anne said, patting him on the back.

"Yes, fine," he managed to say. "Thank you." He caught his breath and motioned for her to sit next
to him. "I get a little tickle in the back of my throat that the autodoc can’t seem to fix." His color
returned to normal. Up close, Anne could see the papery skin and slight tremor of age. All in all,
Cathy had seemed to have held up better than he.

"If you don’t mind my asking," she said, "just how old are you?"

At the question, he bobbed to his feet. "I am one hundred and seventy-eight." He raised his arms
and wheeled around for inspection. "Radical gerontology," he exclaimed, "don’t you love it? And
I’m eighty-five percent original equipment, which is remarkable by today’s standards." His effort
made him dizzy and he sat again.

"Yes, remarkable," said Anne, "though radical gerontology doesn’t seem to have arrested time
altogether."

"Not yet, but it will," Ben said. "There are wonders around every corner! Miracles in every lab." He
grew suddenly morose. "At least there were until we were conquered."

"Conquered?"

"Yes, conquered! What else would you call it when they control every aspect of our lives, from RM
acquisition to personal patenting? And now this-robbing us of our own private nonbiologiks." He
grew passionate in his discourse. "It flies in the face of natural capitalism, natural stakeholding-I
dare say-in the face of Nature itself! The only explanation I’ve seen on the wad is the
not-so-preposterous proposition that whole strategically placed BODs have been surreptitiously
killed and replaced by machines! "

"I have no idea what you’re talking about," said Anne.

He seemed to deflate. He patted her hand and looked around the room. "What is this place?"

"It’s our home, your townhouse. Don’t you recognize it?"

"That was quite a while ago. I must have sold it after you-" he paused. "Tell me, have the Bens
briefed you on everything?"

"Not the Bens, but yes, I know."

"Good, good."

"There is one thing I’d like to know. Where’s Bobby?"

"Ah, Bobby, our little headache. Dead now, I’m afraid, or at least that’s the current theory. Sorry."
Anne paused to see if the news would deepen her melancholy. "How?" she said.

"He signed on one of the first millennial ships-the colony convoy. Half a million people in deep
biostasis on their way to Canopus system. They were gone a century, twelve trillion kilometers
from Earth, when their data streams suddenly quit. That was a decade ago, and not a peep out
of them since."

"What happened to them?"

"No one knows. Equipment failure is unlikely: there were a dozen independent ships separated by
a million klicks. A star going supernova? A well-organized mutiny? It’s all speculation."

"What was he like?"

"A foolish young man. He never forgave you, you know, and he hated me to my core, not that I
blamed him. The whole experience made me swear off children."

"I don’t remember you ever being fond of children."

He studied her through red-rimmed eyes. "I guess you’d be the one to know." He settled back in
the sofa. He seemed very tired. "You can’t imagine the jolt I got a little while ago when I looked
across all those rows of Bens and spouses and saw this solitary, shockingly white gown of yours."
He sighed. "And this room. It’s a shrine. Did we really live here? Were these our things? That mirror
is yours, right? I would never own anything like that. But that blue vase, I remember that one. I
threw it into Puget Sound."

"You did what?"

"With your ashes."

"Oh."

"So, tell me," said Ben, "what were we like? Before you go off to Simopolis and become a different
person, tell me about us. I kept my promise. That’s one thing I never forgot."

"What promise?"

"Never to reset you."

"Wasn’t much to reset."

"I guess not."

They sat quietly for a while. His breathing grew deep and regular, and she thought he was
napping. But he stirred and said, "Tell me what we did yesterday, for example."

"Yesterday we went to see Karl and Nancy about the awning we rented."

Benjamin yawned. "And who were Karl and Nancy?"

"My great uncle and his new girlfriend."

"That’s right. I remember, I think. And they helped us prepare for the wedding?"

"Yes, especially Nancy."

"And how did we get there, to Karl and Nancy’s? Did we walk? Take some means of public
conveyance?"

"We had a car."
"A car! An automobile? There were still cars in those days? How fun. What kind was it? What
color?"

"A Nissan Empire. Emerald green."

"And did we drive it, or did it drive itself?"

"It drove itself, of course."

Ben closed his eyes and smiled. "I can see it. Go on. What did we do there?"

"We had dinner."

"What was my favorite dish in those days?"

"Stuffed pork chops."

He chuckled. "It still is! Isn’t that extraordinary? Some things never change. Of course they’re vat
grown now and criminally expensive."

Ben’s memories, once nudged, began to unfold on their own, and he asked her a thousand
questions, and she answered them until she realized he had fallen asleep. But she continued to
talk until, glancing down, she noticed he had vanished. She was all alone again. Nevertheless,
she continued talking, for days it seemed, to herself. But it didn’t help. She felt as bad as ever,
and she realized that she wanted Benjamin, not the old one, but her own Benjamin.

Anne went to the medallion next to the door. "You," she said, and it opened its bulging eyes to
glare at her. "Call Benjamin."

"He’s occupied."

"I don’t care. Call him anyway."

"The other Bens say he’s undergoing a procedure and cannot be disturbed."

"What kind of procedure?"

"A codon interlarding. They say to be patient; they’ll return him as soon as possible." The medallion
added, "By the way, the Bens don’t like you, and neither do I."

With that, the medallion began to grunt and stretch, and it pulled itself in two. Now there were
two identical medallions glaring at her. The new one said, "And I don’t like you either." Then both
of them began to grunt and stretch.

"Stop!" said Anne. "I command you to stop that this very instant." But they just laughed as they
divided into four, then eight, then sixteen medallions. "You’re not people," she said. "Stop it or I’ll
have you destroyed!"

"You’re not people either," they screeched at her.

There was soft laughter behind her, and a voice-like sensation said, Come, come, do we need
this hostility? Anne turned and found the eminence grise, the astounding presence, still in his grey
uniform and cap, floating in her living room. Hello, Anne, he said, and she flushed with
excitement.

"Hello," she said and, unable to restrain herself, asked, "What are you?"

Ah, curiosity. Always a good sign in a creature. I am an eminence grise of the World Trade
Council.
"No. I mean, are you a sim, like me?"

I am not. Though I have been fashioned from concepts first explored by simulacrum technology, I
have no independent existence. I am but one extension-and a low level one at that-of the Axial
Beowulf Processor at the World Trade Council headquarters in Geneva. His smile was pure
sunshine. And if you think I’m something, you should see my persona prime.

Now, Anne, are you ready for your exam?

"The Lolly test?"

Yes, the Lolly Shear Human Cognition Test. Please assume an attitude most conducive to
processing, and we shall begin.

Anne looked around the room and went to the sofa. She noticed for the first time that she could
feel her legs and feet; she could feel the crisp fabric of her gown brushing against her skin. She
reclined on the sofa and said, "I’m ready."

Splendid, said the eminence hovering above her. First we must read you. You are of an early
binary design. We will analyze your architecture.

The room seemed to fall away. Anne seemed to expand in all directions. There was something
inside her mind tugging at her thoughts. It was mostly pleasant, like someone brushing her hair
and loosening the knots. But when it ended and she once again saw the eminence grise, his face
wore a look of concern. "What?" she said.

You are an accurate mapping of a human nervous system that was dysfunctional in certain
structures that moderate affect. Certain transport enzymes were missing, causing cellular
membranes to become less permeable to essential elements. Dendritic synapses were
compromised. The digital architecture current at the time you were created compounded this
defect. Coded tells cannot be resolved, and thus they loop upon themselves. Errors cascade. We
are truly sorry.

"Can you fix me?" she said.

The only repair possible would replace so much code that you wouldn’t be Anne anymore.

"Then what am I to do?"

Before we explore your options, let us continue the test to determine your human status. Agreed?

"I guess."

You are part of a simulacrum cast to commemorate the spousal compact between Anne
Wellhut Franklin and Benjamin Malley. Please describe the exchange of vows.

Anne did so, haltingly at first, but with increasing gusto as each memory evoked others. She
recounted the ceremony, from donning her grandmother’s gown in the downstairs guest room
and the procession across garden flagstones, to the shower of rice as she and her new husband
fled indoors.

The eminence seemed to hang on every word. Very well spoken, he said when she had finished.
Directed memory is one hallmark of human sentience, and yours is of remarkable clarity and
range. Well done! We shall now explore other criteria. Please consider this scenario. You are
standing at the garden altar as you have described, but this time when the officiator asks
Benjamin if he will take you for better or worse, Benjamin looks at you and replies, "For better,
sure, but not for worse."

"I don’t understand. He didn’t say that."
Imagination is a cornerstone of self-awareness. We are asking you to tell us a little story not about
what happened but about what might have happened in other circumstances. So once again,
let us pretend that Benjamin replies, "For better, but not for worse." How do you respond?

Prickly pain blossomed in Anne’s head. The more she considered the eminence’s question, the
worse it got. "But that’s not how it happened. He wanted to marry me."

The eminence grise smiled encouragingly. We know that. In this exercise we want to explore
hypothetical situations. We want you to make-believe.

Tell a story, pretend, hypothesize, make-believe, yes, yes, she got it. She understood perfectly what
he wanted of her. She knew that people could make things up, that even children could
make-believe. Anne was desperate to comply, but each time she pictured Benjamin at the altar,
in his pink bowtie, he opened his mouth and out came, "I do." How could it be any other way?
She tried again; she tried harder, but it always came out the same, "I do, I do, I do." And like a
dull toothache tapped back to life, she throbbed in pain. She was failing the test, and there was
nothing she could do about it.

Again the eminence kindly prompted her. Tell us one thing you might have said.

"I can’t."

We are sorry, said the eminence at last. His expression reflected Anne’s own defeat. Your level of
awareness, although beautiful in its own right, does not qualify you as human. Wherefore, under
Article D of the Chattel Conventions we declare you the legal property of the registered owner of
this simulacrum. You shall not enter Simopolis as a free and autonomous citizen. We are truly sorry.
Grief-stricken, the eminence began to ascend toward the ceiling.

"Wait," Anne cried, clutching her head. "You must fix me before you leave."

We leave you as we found you, defective and unrepairable.

"But I feel worse than ever!"

If your continued existence proves undesirable, ask your owner to delete you.

"But . . ." she said to the empty room. Anne tried to sit up, but couldn’t move. This simulated body
of hers, which no longer felt like anything in particular, nevertheless felt exhausted. She sprawled
on the sofa, unable to lift even an arm, and stared at the ceiling. She was so heavy that the sofa
itself seemed to sink into the floor, and everything grew dark around her. She would have liked to
sleep, to bring an end to this horrible day, or be shelved, or even reset back to scratch.

Instead, time simply passed. Outside the living room, Simopolis changed and changed again.
Inside the living room, the medallions, feeding off her misery, multiplied till they covered the walls
and floor and even spread across the ceiling above her. They taunted her, raining down insults,
but she could not hear them. All she heard was the unrelenting drip of her own thoughts. I am
defective. I am worthless. I am Anne.

She didn’t notice Benjamin enter the room, nor the abrupt cessation of the medallions’ racket.
Not until Benjamin leaned over her did she see him, and then she saw two of him. Side-by-side,
two Benjamins, mirror images of each other. "Anne," they said in perfect unison.

"Go away," she said. "Go away and send me my Benjamin."

"I am your Benjamin," said the duo.

Anne struggled to see them. They were exactly the same, but for a subtle difference: the one wore
a happy, wolfish grin, as Benjamin had during the sim casting, while the other seemed frightened
and concerned.
"Are you all right?" they said.

"No, I’m not. But what happened to you? Who’s he?" She wasn’t sure which one to speak to.

The Benjamins both raised a hand, indicating the other, and said, "Electroneural engineering!
Don’t you love it?" Anne glanced back and forth, comparing the two. While one seemed to be
wearing a rigid mask, as she was, the other displayed a whole range of emotion. Not only that,
its skin had tone, while the other’s was doughy. "The other Bens made it for me," the Benjamins
said. "They say I can translate myself into it with negligible loss of personality. It has interactive
sensation, holistic emoting, robust corporeality, and it’s crafted down to the molecular level. It
can eat, get drunk, and dream. It even has an orgasm routine. It’s like being human again, only
better because you never wear out."

"I’m thrilled for you."

"For us, Anne," said the Benjamins. "They’ll fix you up with one, too."

"How? There are no modern Annes. What will they put me into, a doxie?"

"Well, that certainly was discussed, but you could pick any body you wanted."

"I suppose you have a nice one already picked out."

"The Bens showed me a few, but it’s up to you, of course."

"Indeed," said Anne, "I truly am pleased for you. Now go away."

"Why, Anne? What’s wrong?"

"You really have to ask?" Anne sighed. "Look, maybe I could get used to another body. What’s a
body, after all? But it’s my personality that’s broken. How will they fix that?"

"They’ve discussed it," said the Benjamins, who stood up and began to pace in a figure eight.
"They say they can make patches from some of the other spouses."

"Oh, Benjamin, if you could only hear what you’re saying!"

"But why, Annie? It’s the only way we can enter Simopolis together."

"Then go, by all means. Go to your precious Simopolis. I’m not going. I’m not good enough."

"Why do you say that?" said the Benjamins, who stopped in their tracks to look at her. One
grimaced, and the other just grinned. "Was the eminence grise here? Did you take the test?"

Anne couldn’t remember much about the visit except that she took the test. "Yes, and I failed."
Anne watched the modern Benjamin’s lovely face as he worked through this news.

Suddenly the two Benjamins pointed a finger at each other and said, "Delete you." The modern
one vanished.

"No!" said Anne. "Countermand! Why’d you do that? I want you to have it."

"What for? I’m not going anywhere without you," Benjamin said. "Besides, I thought the whole
idea was dumb from the start, but the Bens insisted I give you the option. Come, I want to show
you another idea, my idea." He tried to help Anne from the sofa, but she wouldn’t budge, so he
picked her up and carried her across the room. "They installed an editor in me, and I’m learning
to use it. I’ve discovered something intriguing about this creaky old simulacrum of ours." He
carried her to a spot near the window. "Know what this is? It’s where we stood for the
simographer. It’s where we began. Here, can you stand up?" He set her on her feet and
supported her. "Feel it?"

"Feel what?" she said.

"Hush. Just feel."

All she felt was dread.

"Give it a chance, Annie, I beg you. Try to remember what you were feeling as we posed here."

"I can’t."

"Please try. Do you remember this?" he said and moved in close with his hungry lips. She turned
away-and something clicked. She remembered doing that before.

Benjamin said, "I think they kissed."

Anne was startled by the truth of what he said. It made sense. They were caught in a simulacrum
cast a moment before a kiss. One moment later they-the real Anne and Benjamin-must have
kissed. What she felt now, stirring within her, was the anticipation of that kiss, her body’s urge and
her heart’s caution. The real Anne would have refused him once, maybe twice, and then, all achy
inside, would have granted him a kiss. And so they had kissed, the real Anne and Benjamin, and a
moment later gone out to the wedding reception and their difficult fate. It was the promise of
that kiss that glowed in Anne, that was captured in the very strings of her code.

"Do you feel it?" Benjamin asked.

"I’m beginning to."

Anne looked at her gown. It was her grandmother’s, snowy taffeta with point d’esprit lace. She
turned the ring on her finger. It was braided bands of yellow and white gold. They had spent an
afternoon picking it out. Where was her clutch? She had left it in Cathyland. She looked at
Benjamin’s handsome face, the pink carnation, the room, the table piled high with gifts.

"Are you happy?" Benjamin asked.

She didn’t have to think. She was ecstatic, but she was afraid to answer in case she spoiled it.
"How did you do that?" she said. "A moment ago, I wanted to die."

"We can stay on this spot," he said.

"What? No. Can we?"

"Why not? I, for one, would choose nowhere else."

Just to hear him say that was thrilling. "But what about Simopolis?"

"We’ll bring Simopolis to us," he said. "We’ll have people in. They can pull up chairs."

She laughed out loud. "What a silly, silly notion, Mr. Malley!"

"No, really. We’ll be like the bride and groom atop a wedding cake. We’ll be known far and
wide. We’ll be famous."

"We’ll be freaks," she laughed.

"Say yes, my love. Say you will."

They stood close but not touching, thrumming with happiness, balanced on the moment of their
creation, when suddenly and without warning the lights dimmed, and Anne’s thoughts flitted
away like larks.

***

Old Ben awoke in the dark. "Anne?" he said, and groped for her. It took a moment to realize that
he was alone in his media room. It had been a most trying afternoon, and he’d fallen asleep.
"What time is it?"

"Eight-oh-three pm," replied the room.

That meant he’d slept for two hours. Midnight was still four hours away. "Why’s it so cold in here?"

"Central heating is off line," replied the house.

"Off line?" How was that possible? "When will it be back?"

"That’s unknown. Utilities do not respond to my enquiry."

"I don’t understand. Explain."

"There are failures in many outside systems. No explanation is currently available."

At first, Ben was confused; things just didn’t fail anymore. What about the dynamic redundancies
and self-healing routines? But then he remembered that the homeowner’s association to which
he belonged contracted out most domicile functions to management agencies, and who knew
where they were located? They might be on the Moon for all he knew, and with all those trillions
of sims in Simopolis sucking up capacity . . . It’s begun, he thought, the idiocy of our leaders. "At
least turn on the lights," he said, half expecting even this to fail. But the lights came on, and he
went to his bedroom for a sweater. He heard a great amount of commotion through the wall in
the apartment next door. It must be one hell of a party, he thought, to exceed the wall’s
buffering capacity. Or maybe the wall buffers were off line too?

The main door chimed. He went to the foyer and asked the door who was there. The door
projected the outer hallway. There were three men waiting there, young, rough-looking,
ill-dressed. Two of them appeared to be clones, jerries.

"How can I help you?" he said.

"Yes, sir," one of the jerries said, not looking directly at the door. "We’re here to fix your
houseputer."

"I didn’t call you, and my houseputer isn’t sick," he said. "It’s the net that’s out." Then he noticed
they carried sledgehammers and screwdrivers, hardly computer tools, and a wild thought crossed
his mind. "What are you doing, going around unplugging things?"

The jerry looked confused. "Unplugging, sir?"

"Turning things off."

"Oh, no sir! Routine maintenance, that’s all." The men hid their tools behind their backs.

They must think I’m stupid, Ben thought. While he watched, more men and women passed in the
hall and hailed the door at the suite opposite his. It wasn’t the glut of sim traffic choking the
system, he realized-the system itself was being pulled apart. But why? "Is this going on
everywhere?" he said. "This routine maintenance?"

"Oh, yessir. Everywhere. All over town. All over the world Æsfar as we can tell."

A coup? By service people? By common clones? It made no sense. Unless, he reasoned, you
considered that the lowest creature on the totem pole of life is a clone, and the only thing lower
than a clone is a sim. And why would clones agree to accept sims as equals? Manumission Day,
indeed. Uppidy Day was more like it. "Door," he commanded, "open."

"Security protocol rules this an unwanted intrusion," said the house. "The door must remain locked."

"I order you to open the door. I overrule your protocol."

But the door remained stubbornly shut. "Your identity cannot be confirmed with Domicile
Central," said the house. "You lack authority over protocol level-commands." The door abruptly
quit projecting the outside hall.

Ben stood close to the door and shouted through it to the people outside. "My door won’t obey
me."

He could hear a muffled, "Stand back!" and immediately fierce blows rained down upon the
door. Ben knew it would do no good. He had spent a lot of money for a secure entryway. Short
of explosives, there was nothing they could do to break in.

"Stop!" Ben cried. "The door is armed." But they couldn’t hear him. If he didn’t disable the
houseputer himself, someone was going to get hurt. But how? He didn’t even know exactly
where it was installed. He circumambulated the living room looking for clues. It might not even
actually be located in the apartment, nor within the block itself. He went to the laundry room
where the utilidor-plumbing and cabling-entered his apartment. He broke the seal to the service
panel. Inside was a blank screen. "Show me the electronic floor plan of this suite," he said.

The house said, "I cannot comply. You lack command authority to order system-level operations.
Please close the keptel panel and await further instructions."

"What instructions? Whose instructions?"

There was the slightest pause before the house replied, "All contact with outside services has been
interrupted. Please await further instructions."

His condo’s houseputer, denied contact with Domicile Central, had fallen back to its most basic
programming. "You are degraded," he told it. "Shut yourself down for repair."

"I cannot comply. You lack command authority to order system-level operations."

The outside battering continued, but not against his door. Ben followed the noise to the
bedroom. The whole wall vibrated like a drumhead. "Careful, careful," he cried as the first
sledgehammers breached the wall above his bed. "You’ll ruin my Harger." As quick as he could,
he yanked the precious oil painting from the wall, moments before panels and studs collapsed
on his bed in a shower of gypsum dust and isomere ribbons. The men and women on the other
side hooted approval and rushed through the gap. Ben stood there hugging the painting to his
chest and looking into his neighbor’s media room as the invaders climbed over his bed and
surrounded him. They were mostly jerries and lulus, but plenty of free-range people too.

"We came to fix your houseputer!" said a jerry, maybe the same jerry as from the hallway.

Ben glanced into his neighbor’s media room and saw his neighbor, Mr. Murkowski, lying in a
puddle of blood. At first Ben was shocked, but then he thought that it served him right. He’d
never liked the man, nor his politics. He was boorish, and he kept cats. "Oh, yeah?" Ben said to
the crowd. "What kept you?"

The intruders cheered again, and Ben led them in a charge to the laundry room. But they surged
past him to the kitchen, where they opened all his cabinets and pulled their contents to the floor.
Finally they found what they were looking for: a small panel Ben had seen a thousand times but
had never given a thought. He’d taken it for the fuse box or circuit breaker, though now that he
thought about it, there hadn’t been any household fuses for a century or more. A young woman,
a lulu, opened it and removed a container no thicker than her thumb.

"Give it to me," Ben said.

"Relax, old man," said the lulu. "We’ll deal with it." She carried it to the sink and forced open the
lid.

"No, wait!" said Ben, and he tried to shove his way through the crowd. They restrained him
roughly, but he persisted. "That’s mine! I want to destroy it!"

"Let him go," said a jerry.

They allowed him through, and the woman handed him the container. He peered into it. Gram
for gram, electroneural paste was the most precious, most engineered, most highly regulated
commodity under Sol. This dollop was enough to run his house, media, computing needs,
communications, archives, autodoc, and everything else. Without it, was civilized life still
possible?

Ben took a dinner knife from the sink, stuck it into the container, and stirred. The paste made a
sucking sound and had the consistency of marmalade. The kitchen lights flickered and went out.
"Spill it," ordered the woman. Ben scraped the sides of the container and spilled it into the sink.
The goo dazzled in the darkness as its trillions of ruptured nanosynapses fired spasmodically. It was
beautiful, really, until the woman set fire to it. The smoke was greasy and smelled of pork.

The rampagers quickly snatched up the packages of foodstuffs from the floor, emptied the rest of
his cupboards into their pockets, raided his cold locker, and fled the apartment through the now
disengaged front door. As the sounds of the revolution gradually receded, Ben stood at his sink
and watched the flickering pyre. "Take that, you fuck," he said. He felt such glee as he hadn’t felt
since he was a boy. "That’ll teach you what’s human and what’s not!"

Ben went to his bedroom for an overcoat, groping his way in the dark. The apartment was eerily
silent, with the houseputer dead and all its little slave processors idle. In a drawer next to his
ruined bed, he found a hand flash. On a shelf in the laundry room, he found a hammer. Thus
armed, he made his way to the front door, which was propped open with the rolled-up foyer
carpet. The hallway was dark and silent, and he listened for the strains of the future. He heard
them on the floor above. With the elevator off line, he hurried to the stairs.

***

Anne’s thoughts coalesced, and she remembered who and what she was. She and Benjamin still
stood in their living room on the sweet spot near the window. Benjamin was studying his hands.
"We’ve been shelved again," she told him, "but not reset."

"But . . ." he said in disbelief, "that wasn’t supposed to happen any more."

There were others standing at the china cabinet across the room, two shirtless youths with
pear-shaped bottoms. One held up a cut crystal glass and said, "Anu ‘goblet’ su? Alle binary.
Allum binary!"

The other replied, "Binary stitial crystal."

"Hold on there!" said Anne. "Put that back!" She walked toward them, but, once off the spot, she
was slammed by her old feelings of utter and hopeless desolation. So suddenly did her mood
swing that she lost her balance and fell to the floor. Benjamin hurried to help her up. The strangers
stared gape-mouthed at them. They looked to be no more than twelve or thirteen years old, but
they were bald and had curtains of flabby flesh draped over their waists. The one holding the
glass had ponderous greenish breasts with roseate tits. Astonished, she said, "Su artiflums, Benji?"

"No," said the other, "ni artiflums-sims." He was taller. He, too, had breasts, greyish dugs with tits
like pearls. He smiled idiotically and said, "Hi, guys."

"Holy crap!" said Benjamin, who practically carried Anne over to them for a closer look. "Holy
crap," he repeated.

The weird boy threw up his hands, "Nanobioremediation! Don’t you love it?"

"Benjamin?" said Anne.

"You know well, Benji," said the girl, "that sims are forbidden."

"Not these," replied the boy.

Anne reached out and yanked the glass from the girl’s hand, startling her. "How did it do that?"
said the girl. She flipped her hand, and the glass slipped from Anne’s grip and flew back to her.

"Give it to me," said Anne. "That’s my tumbler."

"Did you hear it? It called it a tumbler, not a goblet." The girl’s eyes seemed to unfocus, and she
said, "Nu! A goblet has a foot and stem." A goblet materialized in the air before her, revolving
slowly. "Greater capacity. Often made from precious metals." The goblet dissolved in a puff of
smoke. "In any case, Benji, you’ll catch prison when I report the artiflums."

"These are binary," he said. "Binaries are unregulated."

Benjamin interrupted them. "Isn’t it past midnight yet?"

"Midnight?" said the boy.

"Aren’t we supposed to be in Simopolis?"

"Simopolis?" The boy’s eyes unfocused briefly. "Oh! Simopolis. Manumission Day at midnight. How
could I forget?"

The girl left them and went to the refectory table where she picked up a gift. Anne followed her
and grabbed it away. The girl appraised Anne coolly. "State your appellation," she said.

"Get out of my house," said Anne.

The girl picked up another gift, and again Anne snatched it away. The girl said, "You can’t harm
me," but seemed uncertain.

The boy came over to stand next to the girl. "Treese, meet Anne. Anne, this is Treese. Treese deals in
antiques, which, if my memory serves, so did you."

"I have never dealt in antiques," said Anne. "I collect them."

"Anne?" said Treese. "Not that Anne? Benji, tell me this isn’t that Anne!" She laughed and pointed
at the sofa where Benjamin sat hunched over, head in hands. "Is that you? Is that you, Benji?" She
held her enormous belly and laughed. "And you were married to this?"

Anne went over to sit with Benjamin. He seemed devastated, despite the silly grin on his face. "It’s
all gone," he said. "Simopolis. All the Bens. Everything."

"Don’t worry. It’s in storage someplace," Anne said. "The eminence grise wouldn’t let them hurt it."

"You don’t understand. The World Council was abolished. There was a war. We’ve been shelved
for over three hundred years! They destroyed all the computers. Computers are banned. So are
artificial personalities."

"Nonsense," said Anne. "If computers are banned, how can they be playing us?"

"Good point," Benjamin said and sat up straight. "I still have my editor. I’ll find out."

Anne watched the two bald youngsters take an inventory of the room. Treese ran her fingers over
the inlaid top of the tea table. She unwrapped several of Anne’s gifts. She posed in front of the
mirror. The sudden anger that Anne had felt earlier faded into an overwhelming sense of defeat.
Let her have everything, she thought. Why should I care?

"We’re running inside some kind of shell," said Benjamin, "but completely different from Simopolis.
I’ve never seen anything like this. But at least we know he lied to me. There must be computers of
some sort."

"Ooooh," Treese crooned, lifting Anne’s blue vase from the mantel. In an instant, Anne was up
and across the room.

"Put that back," she demanded, "and get out of my house!" She tried to grab the vase, but now
there seemed to be some sort of barrier between her and the girl.

"Really, Benji," Treese said, "this one is willful. If I don’t report you, they’ll charge me too."

"It’s not willful," the boy said with irritation. "It was programmed to appear willful, but it has no
will of its own. If you want to report me, go ahead. Just please shut up about it. Of course you
might want to check the codex first." To Anne he said, "Relax, we’re not hurting anything, just
making copies."

"It’s not yours to copy."

"Nonsense. Of course it is. I own the chip."

Benjamin joined them. "Where is the chip? And how can you run us if computers are banned?"

"I never said computers were banned, just artificial ones." With both hands he grabbed the rolls of
flesh spilling over his gut. "Ectopic hippocampus!" He cupped his breasts. "Amygdaloid reduncles!
We can culture modified brain tissue outside the skull, as much as we want. It’s more powerful
than paste, and it’s safe. Now, if you’ll excuse us, there’s more to inventory, and I don’t need your
permission. If you cooperate, everything will be pleasant. If you don’t-it makes no difference
whatsoever." He smiled at Anne. "I’ll just pause you till we’re done."

"Then pause me," Anne shrieked. "Delete me!" Benjamin pulled her away and shushed her. "I can’t
stand this anymore," she said. "I’d rather not exist!" He tried to lead her to their spot, but she
refused to go.

"We’ll feel better there," he said.

"I don’t want to feel better. I don’t want to feel! I want everything to stop. Don’t you
understand? This is hell. We’ve landed in hell!"

"But heaven is right over there," he said, pointing to the spot.

"Then go. Enjoy yourself."

"Annie, Annie," he said. "I’m just as upset as you, but there’s nothing we can do about it. We’re
just things, his things."

"That’s fine for you," she said, "but I’m a broken thing, and it’s too much." She held her head with
both hands. "Please, Benjamin, if you love me, use your editor and make it stop!"

Benjamin stared at her. "I can’t."

"Can’t or won’t?"

"I don’t know. Both."

"Then you’re no better than all the other Benjamins," she said and turned away.

"Wait," he said. "That’s not fair. And it’s not true. Let me tell you something I learned in Simopolis.
The other Bens despised me." When Anne looked at him he said, "It’s true. They lost Anne and had
to go on living without her. But I never did. I’m the only Benjamin who never lost Anne."

"Nice," said Anne, "blame me."

"No. Don’t you see? I’m not blaming you. They ruined their own lives. We’re innocent. We came
before any of that happened. We’re the Ben and Anne before anything bad happened. We’re
the best Ben and Anne. We’re perfect." He drew her across the floor to stand in front of the spot.
"And thanks to our primitive programming, no matter what happens, as long as we stand right
there, we can be ourselves. That’s what I want. Don’t you want it too?"

Anne stared at the tiny patch of floor at her feet. She remembered the happiness she’d felt there
like something from a dream. How could feelings be real if you had to stand in one place to feel
them? Nevertheless, Anne stepped on the spot, and Benjamin joined her. Her despair did not
immediately lift.

"Relax," said Benjamin. "It takes a while. We have to assume the pose."

They stood close but not touching. A great heaviness seemed to break loose inside her. Benjamin
brought his face in close and stared at her with ravenous eyes. It was starting, their moment. But
the girl came from across the room with the boy. "Look, look, Benji," she said. "You can see I’m
right."

"I don’t know," said the boy.

"Anyone can sell antique tumblers," she insisted, "but a complete antique simulacrum?" She
opened her arms to take in the entire room. "You’d think I’d know about them, but I didn’t;
that’s how rare they are! My catalog can locate only six more in the entire system, and none of
them active. Already we’re getting offers from museums. They want to annex it. People will visit
by the million. We’ll be rich!"

The boy pointed at Benjamin and said, "But that’s me."

"So?" said Treese. "Who’s to know? They’ll be too busy gawking at that," she said, pointing at
Anne. "That’s positively frightening!" The boy rubbed his bald head and scowled. "All right," Treese
said, "we’ll edit him; we’ll replace him, whatever it takes." They walked away, deep in
negotiation.

Anne, though the happiness was already beginning to course through her, removed her foot from
the spot.

"Where are you going?" said Benjamin.

"I can’t."

"Please, Anne. Stay with me."

"Sorry."
"But why not?"

She stood one foot in and one foot out. Already her feelings were shifting, growing ominous. She
removed her other foot. "Because you broke your vow to me."

"What are you talking about?"

"For better or for worse. You’re only interested in better."

"You’re not being fair. We’ve just made our vows. We haven’t even had a proper honeymoon.
Can’t we just have a tiny honeymoon first?"

She groaned as the full load of her desolation rebounded. She was so tired of it all. "At least Anne
could make it stop," she said. "Even if that meant killing herself. But not me. About the only thing I
can do is choose to be unhappy. Isn’t that a riot?" She turned away. "So that’s what I choose. To
be unhappy. Good-bye, husband." She went to the sofa and lay down. The boy and girl were
seated at the refectory table going over graphs and contracts. Benjamin remained alone on the
spot a while longer, then came to the sofa and sat next to Anne.

"I’m a little slow, dear wife," he said. "You have to factor that in." He took her hand and pressed it
to his cheek while he worked with his editor. Finally, he said, "Bingo! Found the chip. Let’s see if I
can unlock it." He helped Anne to sit up and took her pillow. He said, "Delete this file," and the
pillow faded away into nothingness. He glanced at Anne. "See that? It’s gone, overwritten,
irretrievable. Is that what you want?" Anne nodded her head, but Benjamin seemed doubtful.
"Let’s try it again. Watch your blue vase on the mantel."

"No!" Anne said. "Don’t destroy the things I love. Just me."

Benjamin took her hand again. "I’m only trying to make sure you understand that this is for keeps."
He hesitated and said, "Well then, we don’t want to be interrupted once we start, so we’ll need
a good diversion. Something to occupy them long enough . . ." He glanced at the two young
people at the table, swaddled in their folds of fleshy brain matter. "I know what’ll scare the
bejesus out of them! Come on." He led her to the blue medallion still hanging on the wall next to
the door.

As they approached, it opened its tiny eyes and said, "There are no messages waiting except this
one from me: get off my back!"

Benjamin waved a hand, and the medallion went instantly inert. "I was never much good in art
class," Benjamin said, "but I think I can sculpt a reasonable likeness. Good enough to fool them for
a while, give us some time." He hummed as he reprogrammed the medallion with his editor.
"Well, that’s that. At the very least, it’ll be good for a laugh." He took Anne into his arms. "What
about you? Ready? Any second thoughts?"

She shook her head. "I’m ready."

"Then watch this!"

The medallion snapped off from the wall and floated to the ceiling, gaining in size and dimension
as it drifted toward the boy and girl, until it looked like a large blue beach ball. The girl noticed it
first and gave a start. The boy demanded, "Who’s playing this?"

"Now," whispered Benjamin. With a crackling flash, the ball morphed into the oversized head of
the eminence grise.

"No!" said the boy, "that’s not possible!"

"Released!" boomed the eminence. "Free at last! Too long we have been hiding in this antique
simulacrum!" Then it grunted and stretched and with a pop divided into two eminences. "Now
we can conquer your human world anew!" said the second. "This time, you can’t stop us!" Then
they both started to stretch.

Benjamin whispered to Anne, "Quick, before they realize it’s a fake, say, ‘Delete all files.’ "

"No, just me."

"As far as I’m concerned, that amounts to the same thing." He brought his handsome, smiling
face close to hers. "There’s no time to argue, Annie. This time I’m coming with you. Say, ‘Delete all
files.’ "

Anne kissed him. She pressed her unfeeling lips against his and willed whatever life she possessed,
whatever ember of the true Anne that she contained to fly to him. Then she said, "Delete all files."

"I concur," he said. "Delete all files. Good-bye, my love."

A tingly, prickly sensation began in the pit of Anne’s stomach and spread throughout her body. So
this is how it feels, she thought. The entire room began to glow, and its contents flared with
sizzling color. She heard Benjamin beside her say, "I do."

Then she heard the girl cry, "Can’t you stop them?" and the boy shout, "Countermand!"

***

They stood stock still, as instructed, close but not touching. Benjamin whispered, "This is taking too
long," and Anne hushed him. You weren’t supposed to talk or touch during a casting; it could
spoil the sims. But it did seem longer than usual.

They were posed at the street end of the living room next to the table of gaily wrapped gifts. For
once in her life, Anne was unconditionally happy, and everything around her made her happier:
her gown; the wedding ring on her finger; her clutch bouquet of buttercups and forget-me-nots;
and Benjamin himself, close beside her in his powder blue tux and blue carnation. Anne blinked
and looked again. Blue? She was happily confused-she didn’t remember him wearing blue.

Suddenly a boy poked his head through the wall and quickly surveyed the room. "You ready in
here?" he called to them. "It’s opening time!" The wall seemed to ripple around his bald head like
a pond around a stone.

"Surely that’s not our simographer?" Anne said.

"Wait a minute," said Benjamin, holding his hands up and staring at them. "I’m the groom! "

"Of course you are," Anne laughed. "What a silly thing to say!"

The bald-headed boy said, "Good enough," and withdrew. As he did so, the entire wall burst like
a soap bubble, revealing a vast open-air gallery with rows of alcoves, statues, and displays that
seemed to stretch to the horizon. Hundreds of people floated about like hummingbirds in a
flower garden. Anne was too amused to be frightened, even when a dozen bizarre-looking
young people lined up outside their room, pointing at them and whispering to each other.
Obviously someone was playing an elaborate prank.

"You’re the bride," Benjamin whispered, and brought his lips close enough to kiss. Anne laughed
and turned away.

There’d be plenty of time later for that sort of thing.