The platinum-stained fingers paused while reaching for their tea. “Not criminal, exactly,” she said. “But there have been unauthorized uses of your connectome. Did you know that DIANIMA used the connectomes gathered from this experiment not only for the companions you speak of, but also to model the mind of the android Evrim?”

The waiter brought coffee, toothpicked lokums on a tea saucer, and small glasses of water.

“I didn’t know that. But I remember the contracts we signed said the models could be used for other purposes. Of course, it would have been nice to have been told. But…”

“But what?” Rustem asked.

“But it was a lot of money. I mean—the uploads took almost two weeks. Not all of the procedures were painless, but in the end the compensation paid for over a year at the institute. I finished my doctorate with that money…”

“You want to say something else,” she said.

“Yes. It’s flattering, playing a small part in that project. I know there have been issues with Evrim. I understand that. But it’s something unique, to be a part of that. Now—what is it you wanted from me?”

“My colleague here,” the woman said, “wants to ask you some questions. We have compensated you for your time—the money is already in your account.”

“What kind of questions?”

“A similar set of questions to the ones you were asked before your upload,” Rustem said. “It won’t take much time. A couple of hours. We can do it here.”

Deniz shrugged. “I don’t mind answering questions.”

Four hours later, after they had finished up and were walking back to the dock, Rustem said, “I hope you aren’t planning to kill him.”

They were speaking Russian. “Why not?” The colors buzzed and swirled. The woman was shorter than Rustem. She walked with a posture so perfect it seemed affected.

It was strange how many other details you noticed about a person when their face was obscured.

It was hard to tell whether she was joking or not, with the flattened modulation of the abglanz interfering with inflection.

“Why not? Because he’s just an institute academic who has nothing to do with any of this.”

And why did he care, exactly? Normally, he would not have. But there was something about the man—a purity. At first it had irritated Rustem: this was the kind of person who always lived comfortably. But then, over hours of talking to him, questioning him, Rustem had changed his mind. No. This was the kind of person who wished others no harm. Who had no malice in him, and who the world, in return, left alone. He lived enclosed in a space of innocence.

“Any of this? And what, exactly, is this?”

“Whatever it is you’re involved in. I don’t know the details of it.”