In the selfsame instant, one body
’s torn apart, another frame
assembled. You could say I jump
from form to form, I being
my consciousness, the unique pat
tern of my thoughts, my
memories, or my convictions—
or, if you like, my soul. An ancient
term, but one that works
as well as any other. This is how
my people, generally, describe
the event of transportation, concept
ualize the deed: after all, it’s
right there in the name. But can the soul
really be split from body, mind
from brain? Am I not
a distinct individual from the man who
stepped onto the ship’s trans
porter pad, worked
in his image from all-new materials
just as the proof’s de
stroyed? Had he not been unmade
the moment I was made,
wouldn't it be clear that we
’re two beings, us, two lives—not
one? I think so, and be
lieve he would agree, though
there’s no way for us to ask him now,
of course. He’s gone. Still, he knew what
he was getting into when he
volunteered to take this mission. I
know, because his memories, up to his
final breath, are all mine
now, his choices mine, his triumphs
and regrets. I know him
at least as well as he knew him
self; in that sense, you could argue I
was him, until his dis
solution. I kissed his spouses goodbye
stationside, before the shuttle out. I
volunteered him for this duty, I put him on
that pad. And now I stand before you,
asking only that we talk. No great re
quest (I hope that you’ll agree), considering
I killed someone to get here.