“Mark, mankind is a failure. Nature tried and nature failed. But there’s a new mankind now—people like you, good people, smart people—for the love of God, Mark, compassionate people. No more war, no more cruelty, no more greed. Instead a community in love with itself, as any community of intelligent creatures should be.” The man lifted the disk, holding it toward Mark’s head. “Let me. It’s just a touch, Mark, and you’re fixed.”

“I don’t know who you are. I don’t know why I called you that.”

“My name is Dr. Thomas Ford Turner.”

“You’re Dr. Turner? The Dr. Turner that Gina’s talked about?”

“I created you, Mark. Both of you.”

In that instant, signals from a thousand different directions all entered Mark’s mind at the same time: his own memories, the way the man looked and moved, the words he had spoken.

Mark said, “I was born, not created. And you can’t program a human being.”

“That’s right, Mark, you can’t.” Raising the disk, the man stepped closer.

Like lightning, Mark grabbed at his wrist. And like lightning, he withdrew it.

“Mark, this is the end of one history and the beginning of another, and you play a huge role. You can’t reject your own destiny, or thwart us. Mark, we’ve conquered gravity. We can leave the planet in massive numbers. Enter the cosmos, colonize other worlds. It’s possible Mark and it’s doable. But not by the humans. They’re finished, Mark.”

Mark was listening not only to the words, but to the sounds around him, and he could hear movement, and he could hear breathing.

“If they get any closer,” he said carefully, “I’ll kill them all.”

“Do you know that you’re our only obstacle? The humans can’t possibly stand against us. You need to come home, Mark.”

“One thing is crystal clear, mister, and that is that I don’t know what the hell this is all about, and I certainly don’t understand who or what you are.”

“You don’t know what you are, Mark. But I do. You’re defective, is what you are. Half-human is too much.” He smiled again, too bright and too tight. “We scientists are optimists. That’s our failing.”

The tone of the man’s voice continued to move him to deep, formless nostalgia, but the words made him sweat cold. Half-human? What was that supposed to mean?

For an instant, the man’s attention wandered. Instantly, Mark chopped at his wrist, causing the disk to clang to the floor. Preparing to make some kind of an escape, Mark took a long step away.

“Don’t run, Mark. You’re home.” The man picked up the disk and once again reached toward Mark with it. He was so close that Mark could smell the sweat of him, sour, as sour and disturbing as some exotic cheese.