Kim must have noticed our exchange, but she chooses to ignore it. She logs into the drive and there it is. A little file of two minutes of Nazarin’s life. She opens it.

It’s a strange echo. It’s the words Kim just said, that I just heard, but from a different viewpoint. It’s the lab from the vantage point of Nazarin’s extra height. I can hear all the sounds of the lab—the ticking of some of the instruments, Kim’s voice, the shuffle of Nazarin’s feet as he explores. He looks at the lab equipment, and it’s like there’s cameras behind both of his eyes. But at the same time, it’s different from an image from an actual camera. Like the difference between Zeal and Verve. It seems more familiar. More intimate. Like I have become him.

Kim turns around, and then I see myself. He looks down on me a little. I look up at him. Even though it’s meant to be just a straight recording, some feelings and thoughts creep in somehow, and I can feel it. I can’t tell what exactly the emotion is …

I look away, and the video ends.

“It’s weird,” Nazarin says. “It’s in my mind with that same clarity. None of my other memories are like that. I remember everything. And when I remember, I get a little headache again. It’s far stronger than the memories assisted with my other implants, and I thought those were good.”

“Yep. That’s why you shouldn’t do it more than you have to. OK, Taema, your turn. Have to make sure it works for you, too,” Kim says.

I dutifully press the hollow of my throat three times. Nothing really changes, except the slightest sharpening of focus, a pressure at my temples, a clenching of nausea in my stomach. It’s not too bad, though. I can ignore it. I circle the room, peering at all of her various collectibles from the previous few centuries. I only recognize a few of them—that one’s Superman, resting an arm on Batman, who looks rather grumpy.

Nazarin and Kim murmur to each other behind me. I turn on the ball of my foot, twirling around, wanting to see the same blur on the wallscreen. It’s a heady feeling, knowing that everything I’m seeing and hearing is permanent. Even if I forget it in the depths of my brain, though evidently that’s unlikely, I could relive it all in perfect detail. Someone else could experience this little slice of my life. Anyone. Even centuries from now, all of this could be gone, but if that file somehow survived, someone could be me for five minutes.