“No. She never heard of them. But that doesn’t rule out a connection. Orrin could have come across the name Allison Pearl somewhere, maybe from a neighbor who happens to be a distant relative—I don’t know. Or it could just be a coincidence.”

“Does that seem likely?”

“Compared to what? The idea that Orrin can travel in time? As far as I can tell the only trip he ever took was Raleigh to Houston on a Greyhound bus.”

“So we’ll never know?”

He shrugged.

Chapter Nineteen. Sandra and Bose

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

ALLISON’S STORY

1.

Often in the weeks after the first encounter between Vox and the Hypothetical machines I caught myself quietly repeating my own name—Allison Pearl, Allison Pearl—anchoring myself to the syllables, the sound of them, the feeling of them in my throat and on my tongue.

As Allison, I had once read a book about the human brain. From that book I had learned the term “neural plasticity,” which means the ability of the brain to modify itself in response to changes in its environment. Neural plasticity was what made it possible for me to be Allison Pearl. It was also what made it possible for a living brain to be wired to a limbic implant. The brain adapts: that’s what brains do.

When Turk told me he had volunteered for surgery I pretended to be surprised. The implant had been an essential part of our plan from the beginning. But for the benefit of the Network’s hidden sensors I was obliged to feel betrayed, I was obliged to argue with him. So I argued. So I wept. It was a convincing performance. It was convincing because it was nine-tenths sincere. I didn’t doubt his courage, but no plan is foolproof. I was terrified of what he might become.

Shit happens, as the original Allison once wrote in her diary. No truer words, etc. For instance: the day Turk had his node installed—probably about the time he was being wheeled into surgery—Isaac Dvali came to see me, and he laid my secrets bare.

*   *   *

I knew from the newsfeeds that Isaac’s recovery had proceeded at an astonishing rate. Everyone in Vox Core was paying breathless attention to him now. Far more than Turk, Isaac had become what the city’s founders had hoped and believed one of the Uptaken ought to be: a living connection to the Hypotheticals—which meant the city’s promised transcendence remained at least plausible. Without Isaac, Vox was nothing but a congregation of fanatics whose faith had stranded them on a dead and deadly planet. With Isaac, it was still possible to believe Vox was a community of like-minded pioneers poised at the vanguard of human destiny.