The Woman Who Died a Lot (Thursday Next 7)

“You must know. They always know.”

“No, I really don’t. I have no recollection of being activated.”

“So you say,” said Landen suspiciously.

“No—to me I’m me.”

“In that case think back to what you can remember. I want my wife back.”

“Okay, okay. I was still in pain and had a stick when I left the library. It can only be between there and here.”

“Did you stop anywhere?”

I paused, deep in thought, trying to figure out when Real Me stopped being Real Me and started being Synthetic Me.

“Nope,” I said. “Nothing.”

“It good likeness,” said Stig, who had just arrived. “But why made no attempt to stoop and limp like real Thursday?”

“It’s much more impressive than that,” said Landen, referring to me as though I were the latest model of car or something. “It’s trying to tell me it has the real one’s consciousness and partial memory.”

Stig peered closer at me. “The craftsmanship different to others. More hurried. It thinks it is her?”

“It is me inside, Stig,” I said. “We met yesterday at the SpecOps office.”

“Anyone could know that. What did we speak of?”

I tried to think of the conversation I’d had with him.

“It’s kind of hazy,” I admitted, “as if the handover between Real Me and Synthetic Me isn’t complete. It’s like when you wake up and you’re not sure who you are or where you are, or even your own name—you know, how rock legends spend the first two hours of each day.”

“That sounds more like Thursday,” said Stig.

“Yes,” replied Landen. “None of them ever had a sense of humor before.”

“Shit,” I said.

“What?” asked Landen.

“I can remember more of the password. Nothing should disturb that condor . . . something. And, Stig, we talked about what I’d been doing that morning, and something about shampoo being in a different bottle.”

“Did that happen?” asked Landen.

“Yes.”

“And the shrink’s name was . . . Dr. Chumley,” I said as memories came seeping through. “And he gave me a NUT-4 because I was hoping to run SO-27. Shazza said to tell Friday that it would have been seriously good.”

“Is that true?” asked Stig.

Landen nodded, and I stared at the pair of them. They looked . . . well, spooked. None of the othe

r Synthetics had been anything like this.

“What all this mean?” Stig asked Landen.

“I don’t know.”

“I can feel the memories filter in, like I’m waking up to a new body,” I said. “It feels good, too—like I’ve never felt before. Ask me a question.”