“By whom,” he said distantly.
Ah! Always the language purist. Okay then, by whom?
“The Director, I suppose.”
Who is . . . ?
“I’ve wondered about that. If there’s something working itself out here. Somehow.”
God?
“Too short a name for such a large idea. Anyway, I’d have thought you could ask Him directly, eh?”
Because I’m in heaven?
“Aren’t you? Or someplace at least different?”
She laughed. I’m in your head. Not really heaven, no.
Yet as she turned slightly more and smiled at him, Nigel could see her with crystalline clarity. This was too good to be a hallucination. Too solid, crisp, real. He must be worse off than he thought.
“Alexandria . . . ?”
Yes?
“I want to—I—”
Not that time yet.
He snapped, “I’m like a child, told when to go to bed?”
This isn’t bed. Not nearly as much fun, for one thing.
“I’m . . . tired.”
Not physically though.
“Perhaps I’ve seen too much.”
It’s not your moment yet.
With sharp anger he barked, “It wasn’t your moment either.”
You’re still getting hard at night, just thinking of me, aren’t you?
“Um. I can hardly deny it, can I? You seem to live inside my head.”
Exactly, lover! And as long as I do—well, maybe it wasn’t my moment, back there. Maybe I’m still here.
“Copies aren’t originals.”
A lady appreciates what compliments come her way. Especially since I know you have Nikka.
“I hope this isn’t disloyal to her.”
It can’t be. We are all the loves we have known—that’s my own attempt at self-definition.
“I like that. A definition free of the worn-out carcass, the body.”
Don’t ignore the body. Or bodies.
He paused, swollen tongue running over bitter teeth. “Bodies . . .”
The bodies got you into this.
“Don’t remind me.”
Think of them as calling cards.
“How hilarious. From the Grey Mechs, no doubt. Come to the dance, please, and die.”
Who would read a suredead body, lover? Think.
“I’m starting to hate riddles.” His head was woozy, the world circling him in a slow waltz.
I’m a part of the riddle, too. We all are. See you around, lover.
“Not yet!”
