“Didn’t we already do this?” Cabigail spluttered.
“What did you do?” Con roared.
“It’s a work in progress.”
“His name is Zhi Duan. He’s not an it.”
“Yes, his name is Zhi Duan, and you should be thanking me.”
“How? How did you get his upload?” Con demanded.
Cabigail twisted her head side to side, searching for a breath. “From Johns Hopkins. I arranged through back channels to have him signed up for a study on long-term-care patients. I licensed a modified version of my scanner to the university for a few years. Consciousness mapping was a boon to their understanding of traumatic brain injuries. It was simple enough to obtain bloodwork and a copy of his scan from their study. I’ve been working with his clones ever since.”
Con remembered the nurse at Zhi’s long-term-care facility mentioning Zhi having just returned from Hopkins. That had been the day after Christmas eighteen months ago. She remembered feeling momentarily hopeful, and then foolish and stupid. How much worse it was knowing now that it had been her aunt all along, pulling the levers of her plan and baiting her trap. Because that was all Zhi was to her aunt—bait. Con leaned harder against her aunt’s throat and for a wild moment believed that she might kill her. A clearheaded bloodlust surged like drain cleaner through her veins.
Cabigail struggled, slapping weakly at Con’s arm.
Con saw her aunt’s eyes go wide and unfocused. It scared her how badly she wanted to finish it. But then she thought of where she was. Without her aunt, there was no way out of here. She wouldn’t even be able to get back through the door to Zhi, who couldn’t possibly fend for himself. He would die alone and frightened.
Her arm went slack.
Cabigail slipped from her grasp and slid to the floor. Con stood over her while her aunt panted for breath.
“You’ve been working with his clones? Clones, plural?” Con said.
“Yes,” Cabigail said, touching her neck. “The one you met is the third. I’ve also run innumerable simulations. Each iteration brings me closer.”
“Closer to what?”
“To bringing him back the way he was, of course. In the case of traumatic brain injuries, making a precise image of a human consciousness had been impossible. But my epiphany on how to solve the mind-body problem produced some spectacular ancillary benefits. Like the possibility of repairing and reconstructing damaged uploads. But as I said, it’s a work in progress—this last download caused micro-strokes that are responsible for his physical challenges. But he’s come so far this time. You have no idea.”
“And what happens to all the old Zhis?” Con asked, afraid of the answer.
“Oh, don’t be na?ve. He’s a lab culture. Genetic material in a very large petri dish. A means to an end.”
Con recoiled. “If we’re human, he’s human.”
“Only the consciousness matters,” Cabigail snapped. “I only showed you so you’d understand what’s possible. What could be achieved if I had full access to what’s locked inside your head.”
So, that was it. The terrible bargain that her original had struck with Abigail Stickling. She had traded her life for the possibility of giving Zhi his life back. It wasn’t that Con didn’t understand. She knew she’d have made the same bargain. How many times since the accident had she begged the universe for the chance to trade places with Zhi? What broke her heart, though, was that she’d thought her original had made it out. Finally achieved escape velocity from the guilt. It had given Con hope to know that her original had started a new life—met someone, fallen in love, made amends with Stephie, even begun making her own music. And still, when the chance came to save Zhi, she had sacrificed everything.
“Why didn’t you just leave her alone? She was happy.”
“This is more important than happiness,” Cabigail said. “She understood that. Now may I get off the floor?”
Con realized she was standing over her aunt, fists balled. She backed away to give Cabigail room to stand up. Her aunt climbed to her feet, brushing herself off dramatically.
“And you really think you can do it?” Con asked. “Make Zhi whole again?”
“It’s going to take some time, but I’ll get there,” Cabigail answered with absolute certainty.
“So, in your perfect world, what happens now?”
“If you consent, I make an upload of your consciousness and extract my research. Then I get back to work.”