He glanced away for a moment, then looked down at me. “Your brain software is already up and running perfectly in the silicon substrate. All we need to do is connect the substrate and disconnect your biological brain. As I indicated before, the entire procedure should take about three hours.”

Three hours. Three hours until I could access the information we needed to stop Nichols and Cleary. Three hours before I lost access to what potentially gave life its ultimate meaning.

I had thought this through many times. But now that the moment had arrived…was I mad to make such a choice? Would any sane person choose what I was choosing? Was I truly sacrificing my eternity for the sake of—

Nichols had been speaking to me.

“I’m sorry,” I responded. “You were saying?”

“I was asking if you’re ready for us to put you under.”

I took a deep breath, then exhaled. “I’m ready.”

“Wonderful. I couldn’t be happier for you, Professor.”

The anesthesiologist placed a mask over my mouth and nose. “Just breathe normally.”

I took my final breaths as a purely biological human.

43

Abby opened her eyes to the canopy of an ornate four-post bed. She raised her head and looked around a large, lavishly furnished bedroom. She was alone. She climbed out of the bed, jarring her bad ankle when her feet reached the hardwood. She limped to a window and opened its shutters. Sunlight flooded the room. Below her spread the manicured grounds of a grand estate. In the distance she saw a high stone fence and an entrance gate.

Abby remembered being assaulted on the train but nothing after passing out.

She turned a small crank, and the right side of the window swung open. A cool breeze caressed her face. She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. She remembered her epiphany on the train before she was assaulted. Christ in her. He was living through her. By faith, she drew upon him. Whatever she would face, his life in her was sufficient.

A knock interrupted her thoughts. She opened her eyes, hesitated, and then answered. “Come in.”

A man dressed in a butler’s uniform entered with a tray. “Good afternoon, Ms. Caldwell. Can I take it that you slept well?”

Her eyes steeled, and she answered curtly. “Where am I?”

“You are at the Kensington estate of Bryson Nichols. May I—”

“Why have I been brought here against my will?”

The man looked surprised. “I…I do not know the circumstances of your arrival, Ms. Caldwell. I have only been instructed to serve you lunch.” He placed the tray on a coffee table between two upholstered chairs and removed the lid. “Croissants, sliced prosciutto ham, swiss cheese, fresh fruit, and coffee.”

She limped toward the butler. “No thank you. I’d like to see Mr. Nichols now.”