“And here,” Sabin said, “is the memory of Cleary and Ray discussing the commands necessary to erase one’s own programming.”

They were the commands I had received from Ray at the picnic table. In this memory Cleary vociferously objected to the need for such commands.

“Ray, why would anyone possessing a new brain and everlasting mental existence want to erase themselves? It’s inconceivable.”

“I agree, Damien,” Ray replied. “I can’t imagine anyone using it. It’s a backup, that’s all.”

“A backup to what?”

“To anything that might not go as planned.”

The scene was a nice touch. It would play into Cleary’s image of both himself and Ray.

Sabin paused the program again. “In these memories the commands have been switched. When Cleary runs what he thinks is the upload sequence, putting himself in permanent VR, it will actually…” He didn’t end the sentence.

“Erase his software,” I said.

Sabin nodded.

“And the backup on the Grid?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “Unless he’s backed himself up elsewhere.”

“No, he hasn’t.”

Sabin swung his chair around and faced me. “Creighton, I’m not…”

I waited, but he didn’t continue. “Not what?”

“I’m not sure about this. We’re talking about murder here.”

I walked to a counter, poured myself some water, and took a long drink. “Are we? Or are we just reformatting a computer? Is there anyone left there to murder?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

I had asked myself the same question. I didn’t know how to answer it. I put my glass down. “Well, it’s either Cleary or, potentially, millions of others.”

“I don’t think Abby will go for it.”

I shook my head slowly. “Abby will never know about it.”

I exited VR. Ben was sitting on his couch, waiting for me.

“Where’s Abby?” I asked.

“She went to bed. Do you have the holographic memories?”

I nodded. “Sabin just copied them to me.”

“How do they look?”

“Quite good, actually. All I have to do now is insert them.”

He stood up. “Well, no time like the present. Anything you need from me?”

“No. Just wish us all luck.”

He smiled. “Good luck.”

I closed my eyes and accessed Cleary’s memory stream.

48

Damien Cleary strolled across the entryway in his DC home and opened the front door. “Hello, Lewis.”

Lewis Pape glanced down the street, then stepped inside.

“You have the activator?” Cleary asked.

Pape placed a carrying case on a coffee table, opened it, and removed a small electronic device. “I could’ve done this myself, Cleary. It’s risky, my coming here.”