Stella. "I can do that."

Henrietta. "Then he will likely decapitate you. Please, at this point, if you could, feign death. As I mentioned, it may

occur to him to copulate with the orifices of your dismembered head. You are encouraged to reduce your body temperature and remain still, human-like, while this occurs."

"Not a problem." Stella stared out the window. The art director had done a pretty decent job re-creating Central Park. The limo pulled up to an apartment building across the street from a CGI Guggenheim. It was raining, a cinematic drizzle originating from sprinklers above. Stella stood for a moment in the rain, staring up at the penthouse as the doorman opened the door. The camera followed her gaze to a shadow of a man who was watching her from one of the high windows.

The elevator doors opened into the penthouse. Stella emerged in slo-mo, stilettos Foleying hardwood. Three of the client's a.s.sistants appeared, each of indeterminate gender and with a shaved head, monk-like in loose-fitting garments. Eunuchs. Quickly they towelled Stella off and took her handbag and vinyl jacket. One clasped her hand and led her to a sitting room. The penthouse was done up as one might imagine the digs of a 1970s p.o.r.n magazine publisher. A lot of neo-Cla.s.sical faux Greek s.h.i.t, ornate tapestries, chandeliers, marble columns, fountains.

Abby pulled her knees up to her chin. This next part chilled her every time.

The client appeared from behind a shoji screen. A young white guy, boringly handsome, wearing a white cotton bathrobe, tan, confident. "You're the new one," he said.

"I am here to fulfill your pleasures," Stella said.

"My name is Quinn Hunt. You've no doubt heard of Hunt Investments, owner of practically all the world's energy sources?"

Stella was silent.

Hunt continued. "Of course you haven't. You never do. The last time you were here I asked you the same question. I got the same blank look. Tell me, Stella, how many times have you been here?"

"This is my first time."

"Well, good. I'm glad they've got you thinking that. I want to show you something."

Hunt waved his hand and a screen descended from the ceiling. With a couple more motions images appeared. Here was Hunt mounting Stella, or a previous version of Stella, on a plush canopied bed.

"We had fun the last time you were here. See?"

More p.o.r.nographic images. A close-up of the in-the-present Stella's expressionless face as the reflections swam over her corneas. The camera remained on her as, off-screen, the recording of her previous self cried out, the sound of a cane striking artificial flesh, begging, more beating. A close-up of Quinn Hunt's cold face. "Here comes the fun part." The buzz of an electric blade, screams at a higher pitch. A close-up again of Stella's face, unbudged from its blankness.

Hunt. "You wonder why I'm like this. Why I keep bringing you out here to abuse you. I was designed this way. I was an experiment. They isolated the serial-killer profile and engineered me in utero in the lab. But they also engineered incredible health and an astounding mathematical mind. Someone who could swim freely in the world of high finance. Someone with real earning potential. But my pleasure centers are wired to light up in the presence of others' suffering. And they get really lit up when I'm inflicting that suffering. And when I'm lucky enough to kill someone, why, then it's a state of pure nirvana. Do I wish it were another way? Certainly. I curse these pleasures! I pa.s.s people on the street and observe their uncomplicated motivations, their children and possessions. I wish I could be one of them. My life would be so much less demanding if I could get off on what everybody else gets off on. It's a ha.s.sle bringing you out here every week. It's expensive. It's become a ch.o.r.e. But it's something I've been designed to do. And since killing flesh-humans involves breaking laws, I have to make do with the likes of you."

The eunuchs rushed to disrobe Hunt and Stella. Soon the two stood naked before one another, Hunt's c.o.c.k erect. The camera lingered on their bodies. Hunt took a step forward. Then a quickly edited series of shots. Stella reached to her crotch. An outburst of bra.s.s on the soundtrack. The eyes of a eunuch going wide with shock. Stella whipping out a short dagger she'd smuggled inside herself. Hunt, startled. The dagger flashing, then buried in one of Hunt's eye sockets. Screaming. The eunuchs opening their robes to reveal machine pistols and-why not?-samurai swords. Stella whirling naked through the air, landing roundhouse kicks. Hunt screaming, twitching on the floor. Stella having some difficulty retrieving the dagger, as it appeared to be stuck in Hunt's eye, having to brace her foot on his neck to get the proper leverage while one-handedly jiujitsuing the s.h.i.t out of those sword-wielding eunuch guys. The knife slurped out. Stella swiped it like a debit card across Hunt's throat. A blood puddle spread across the floor. Close-up of a eunuch lifting his machine pistol, getting off a smattering of shots, a round ripping through Stella's bicep, revealing the machinery and circuitry within. Stella backflipping, snagging one of the eunuch's swords while midair and upside down, then decapitating all three with a single swipe of the blade. An alarm. Stella snagging a couple machine pistols just in time to blast the security guards appearing in a nearby doorway, globules of flesh spattering oil paintings of landed gentry.

Stella turned to the camera. "The newman uprising is on."

Then, firing both machine pistols and running backward, Stella propelled herself out the nearest window and some twenty stories down, still firing, the angry faces above screaming their threats to her bodily self, a body she didn't necessarily need because they could just give her a new one anyway. These questions getting somewhat obscured by the muzzle-lit e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns of fist-held firepower. Then through the sunroof of a waiting limousine, landing naked, covered in blood and gla.s.s, next to Dr. Uri Borden, played by supernaturally handsome Neethan F. Jordan.

Commercials.

Rocco returned after midnight smelling like his bike commute. After his shower he crawled into bed alongside Abby, who slept and dreamed of horses. He woke her by touching a nipple. She clambered into semiconsciousness and asked how studying had gone. He mumbled something and kissed her. They were supposed to make love now, this is what this meant. She spooned her back into him. He slid his hand over her belly, letting his pinkie rest in her belly b.u.t.ton.

"I got offered a job," Abby said, then sleepily doled out the details, except for the part about Bickle knowing that she spied on their neighbours. Rocco gave her shoulder a little shake. "No more student loans. Wow. You're going to take it, right?"

"I think so."

"What is there to think about?"

Did Rocco have some secret reason for wanting her to leave for a few months? Some chick in the Bionetics department at UBC she didn't know about? He kissed her again, and the brevity of the kiss communicated there'd be no lovemaking. She listened to his breathing as he entered sleep, precipitously, plunging into REM in under five minutes. Down there, in his dreams, he would continue studying, reviewing lecture notes and sometimes mumbling aloud about the amygdala or basolateral complex.

Rocco liked to say that cerebral Bionetic enhancement was the scalpel edge of the next stage of human evolution. Putting it in terms Abby could understand, he explained that the f.u.c.k-or-fight, R-complex reptilian brain had evolved first, then the limbic system with its anxieties and need for hugs, then the rational neocortex, which was now working to develop the next stage of cognition-the Bionetic neural extension. Each component of the triune model had reached a point when it started to understand what the species needed next and so invented its own neural progeny. Instinct demanded emotion, emotion demanded rationality, and rationality demanded . . . what, exactly? This was what Bionet engineers debated after hours while downing Labatts. Some speculated that the brain was in the process of internalizing the Internet. A fringe faction a.s.serted that this new stage would answer philosophical and spiritual questions that had haunted humanity since at least the Greek dudes. His was a brain, Rocco liked to say, that thought about how to build a better brain. But brains could forget and, by extension, cultures could forget. Abby's brain struggled to locate artifacts that had been lost by the collective brain of civilization, archaeologically scrambling into the washed-out past, while Rocco's brain clawed its way into some sort of future. From this nexus of memory and yearning and logic sprang their attraction to one another. They totally made each other cognitively and biologically h.o.r.n.y. Usually.

Abby cursed herself for not telling Rocco about what Bickle had said about the neighbours but now it was too late. If she brought it up now she'd be admitting that she was ashamed of her voyeuristic streak. She'd missed her chance to drop that bomb in an offhand way.

"No more student loans," Abby whispered in the night. That was her excuse for taking the job. The real reason, the one she dared not articulate even to herself, was curiosity.

The city of Victoria appeared to have regressed in age, its green-built skysc.r.a.pers brought to heel, malls and parking garages and condominiums razed, all replaced by roiling wilds. What remained standing were the buildings worthy of the city's heritage-the Parliament, some Tudor-style B&Bs, a replica of Shakespeare's house. This was a city that had once aspired to London's botanical gardens and double-decker buses but had negotiated with the tribal culture that preceded it, arriving at an aesthetic truce, a fusion of potlatch and high tea. Here and there totem poles and longhouses materialized from the Emily Carr mists rolling off the harbour, monuments of extinctions far more distant than the end times of recent memory.

Abby disembarked, suitcase in one hand, a duffel containing her tools in the other. Up ahead was the Empress Hotel, a stately, ivy-clad structure that smugly lorded over the geography as if glaciers had sculpted the harbour for its benefit alone. It used to be a hotel, anyway. In recent centuries it had survived fires, vandalism, drug-addicted architects who'd added wings and bunkers. A scorched tower stood proudly unbowed. Abby ascended to the lobby entrance, skipping every other step.

Once inside, a fit, middle-aged man with gouts of grey chest hair frothing under his chin, wearing a silver tracksuit with the words "Official Delegate" st.i.tched upon the breast, wearily took her bags. "So the entertainment has finally arrived," he said, sounding disappointed as he led her down the hall. "The lady of the house has been waiting impatiently. Federico #37? Costume, please?"

Abby scrambled to get her bearings. A floor of river rock, walls paneled in extinct woods, scents of imitation campfires, dried flowers, decaying leather chesterfields. The man led her through the lobby of distressed furniture, down a hall, and into a dressing room disheveled with clothing. Another man wearing an identical tracksuit-actually this looked to be a twin of the man currently pointing her in the direction of a changing screen-stumbled into the claustrophobia-inducing room wheeling a creaking rack laden with costumes.

"The bunny? I think it's supposed to be the bunny," the first man said. Federico #37 rifled through the clothes and pulled out a pink fake-fur bunny costume with a grinning head-piece.

"I think this is a mistake," Abby said.

"The bunny costume usually is," Federico #37 said.

"Oh, by the way, I'm Federico #18," the first man said. "This is #37."

"There are other Federicos?"

"Don't get us started," #37 said. "You're going to want to get down to panties and bra. It gets hot inside these suckers."

Abby ducked behind a screen and changed into the bunny costume. She took this for some kind of initiatory protocol, a little good-natured hazing. When she emerged she turned and held out her arms. "How does it look?"

"Could use some filling out in the a.s.s," #37 said, "but we work with the entertainment options we have, not the ones we want."

"I think you've got me mixed up with someone else," Abby said. "I'm not an entertainer. I was sent here to work on a project."

The Federicos paused. "A project?"

"I don't know if I'm supposed to say."

"Whatever. We're just the entertainment coordinators. This way, please."

One at each arm, grim-faced, the Federicos jogged Abby down a hallway. Through the bunny head's eye holes she glimpsed garishly colored oil paintings and sconces crafted from ungulate hooves. They pa.s.sed through several rooms-parlours and game rooms, a library, a room that appeared decorated solely with bowling trophies and a sculpture of a bird. At the end of a long hallway they skidded up to a black door marked STAGE, patted Abby on the shoulder, mumbled "Break a leg" in unison, then pushed her into the spotlight.

Abby found herself onstage in a theater before an audience that applauded as she made her entrance. The theater probably seated two or three hundred, the main floor and balconies filled to capacity. It was a three-layer affair, high and oval, gilded and bedecked in red velvet, gold ropes, rosette-print carpet, chandeliers the size of your more fuel-efficient compact cars. Abby, having no clue where to stand, stumbled, eliciting chuckles from the audience. Her throat went dry.

"I'm sorry, but there's been a mistake," Abby stuttered. "I'm not an entertainer. My name is Abby Fogg and I was sent here by a man named Dirk Bickle."

The audience cheered and whistled loudly.

Abby waited for the applause to die down. "I don't know what I'm doing here dressed as a bunny but this has been the weirdest twenty-four hours of my life."

a.s.sorted chuckles.

"I live in Vancouver. I recently graduated from the University of British Columbia with a master's degree in data recovery. I'm here for a project that requires my expertise in restoring digital content. Is there someone I can talk to about this? I'm really sorry I'm not the entertainer you thought I was supposed to be. I'm not even sure if I'm in the right place. Are you in need of a digital recovery expert?"

The audience howled. As the laughter died down, some guy in the back yelled, "You're in the right place all right!"

Abby tried to get a good look at the audience through the bunny eye holes. They were dressed formally, as for an opera, in tuxedos and satin ball gowns, with furs and top hats, monocles, clutch purses, and, here and there, a lap poodle. Every face exactly the same. Six hundred Federicos waited for her to deliver her next line. Things got blurry. Dramatically-this being a stage after all-Abby swooned and fell over, the bunny head providing a soft landing as she pa.s.sed out and the audience rose to an ovation.

She woke to seagull cries, in a third-floor suite facing the harbour, her suitcases set beside the king-size bed. The open window let in a warm, salted breeze. There was a desk, a lamp, a chair, two bedside tables. In the chair sat one of the Federicos, reading a book. This Federico looked younger and had longer hair than the previous ones she'd met. When he noticed Abby stirring he set the book aside and folded his hands over his crossed knees.

"You hungry?"

"No," Abby said. "Maybe a little."

"Bring the girl something to eat," Federico said to no one in particular.

"What is going on here?"

"I don't blame you for being confused," Federico said, "and I have to apologize. I was supposed to orient you, but numbers 37 and 18 got to you first. I expected you to arrive later."

"What is this place?"

"We call it the Seaside Love Palace."

"You're all twins or-"

"Clones."

"How many of you are there?"

"Six hundred and thirty-one."

"I thought the quota was two."

"It is in the United States and Canada. Vancouver Island seceded, remember?"

"Where's Kylee Asparagus?"

"You'll meet her straightaway."

An older Federico arrived with a cart laden with snack foods. Abby, still wearing the body of the pink bunny, sat up in bed and scratched her chest. The head lay nearby on a bedside table, gazing out to the water.

"Until recently I was under the impression that Kylee Asparagus was dead," she said.

The Federicos shook their heads and spoke in unison. "Not exactly. Sometimes she thinks she is."

"How'd you guys do that?" Abby said.

The younger of the Federicos smiled. "We're connected wirelessly. When you speak to one of us-"

The other Federico finished the thought. "-you're really speaking to all of us."

Abby smeared some hummus on a piece of crusty bread. "Why'd she have you cloned?"

Both Federicos said, "The original Federico was one of

Ms. Asparagus's backup dancers, her most loyal companion."

"Can you point me in the direction of the data that's supposed to be restored?" Abby said.

The older Federico nodded and said that would be discussed in time. Tonight she was to have dinner with Ms. Asparagus.

Without the filter of the bunny head Abby got a better look at the manse. She pa.s.sed one room where an old nonfunctional plasma TV took up much of one wall. Nearby, a Federico wearing a repairman's overalls busily reupholstered a chair. On her way to the dining room she pa.s.sed several more Federicos, each absorbed in a task, each man a little different from the others but bearing the same brown eyes squinting in concentration. She even glimpsed a room where an older Federico was busy using magic tricks to entertain a group of five or six child-size Federicos.

"Who is your mother, if you don't mind me asking?" Abby said to a Federico leaning on a broom.

"Our source mother was a woman named Esther Gonzales, of Los Gatos, California. A cleaning lady, raised six children on one income. She died many, many years ago. Our midway mothers are all in Africa or Asia."

"Have any of you met your midway mothers?"

Federico sighed. Elsewhere in the house other Federicos sighed, too, having heard the comment. "Of course we haven't. We're happy to know they received the best medical care in the world for leasing out their uteruses and we greatly appreciate their generosity. Dining room's right up those stairs, Ms. Fogg."

She came to a restaurant with a view of the gardens. A Federico dressed as a host seated Abby at a table across from a woman so pet.i.te she could have been a child, though her wrinkled skin hung off her face in powdery folds. Her face was mostly obscured by a pair of gigantic sungla.s.ses, her head wrapped in a scarf, neck bristling with necklaces, shoulders covered in synthetic chinchilla. She extended a spindly hand to lift her water gla.s.s to her lips. How old was this woman? A hundred and fifty maybe?

"Ms. Asparagus, I'm-" Abby started.

Kylee shushed her. "That p.r.i.c.k Bickle sent you against my wishes. You can go back to your mainland little existence and take your bag of cheap electronic s.h.i.t with you. If it were up to me I would have had the Federicos murder you as soon as you set foot on the estate. Unfortunately they're bred to care, not to kill."

A waiter Federico appeared. "How are you guys doing tonight? Would you like to start out with a bread basket?"

Abby nodded. Federico the waiter set down the bread and poured some olive oil and herbed balsamic into a little saucer. Kylee sulked behind her sungla.s.ses.

"Dirk Bickle said-"