“You said I’d been copied.” I leave it at that. Make it a question. There may be more pressing concerns, but none that have lodged themselves so disconcertingly in my mind. “Yes. That device you were in—the Gate—it takes what’s inside it on Res, and creates new versions on Luceum and Obiteum. Perfect replicas.” “So there’s another version of me—the original one—still on Res?” “Yes.” “And there’s another in some other world, too? In Luceum?” “Yes.” I shake my head. Sick. Refusing to countenance it, even if I’d concluded hours ago that this was what he’d meant. “I don’t feel like a copy.”
