Free Idempotency by Joshua Wright Page B

deathTrip. Less than two dozen people have access to that data.”
    “Kristi, this person knew about—this person knew about my . . . wife.”
    “Oh my God, Dylan. Your wife ? Do you hear yourself right now? You still believe it, don’t you? You still believe it was real?” She took a small, unconscious step backwards as she spoke.
    “Kristina, you don’t get it—to me it was real.”
    “Dylan, the hours, the weeks, the months you’ve spent in psych rehab, trying to get back your sense of self, trying to recover your idempotency . . . have you been faking all this time? Do you still not know who you really are?”
    A tear slowly ran down Kristina’s cheek as Dylan responded. “Kristi, you don’t get it. To me, that life seemed as real as this life. I mean . . .” Just say it , he thought. “I mean, how do I know this isn’t the fake life, and Dalton was my real life?”
    “Why haven’t you talked to me about this?”
    “I’ve tried to talk to you a thousand times, Kristi!” Dylan pointed at her. “You hear only what you want to hear.”
    “That’s not true. I’ve tried to help you through this, every step of the way. I’ve gone with you to dozens of appointments. I’ve practiced recitations with you. I’ve watched countless old vids and pics with you. I’ve done everything I can think of!” More tears began to well in her swollen eyes.
    “But you don’t listen . I keep trying to tell you—I understand who I am, but my deathTrip is still a part of me. I can’t just delete it. You just want me better—idempotent—for your own needs; you don’t care about mine.”
    An expression crossed her face that he had rarely witnessed: pure enmity.
    “That’s ridiculous—I love you , Dylan. Why are you pushing me away?”
    “I love you too, Kristi, I do . . . but . . .” Say it, he thought, don’t chicken out this time. Just say it. “I can’t stop thinking of my wife when we’re together.”
    Kristina exploded into a fit of crying. She had backed herself against the front door and began to pound on it with her open palms. She screamed, “She is not real, Dylan. That woman was not real. I’m real! I am real! ”
    “Kristi, I’m sorry. I can’t stop how I feel.” He reached out for her shoulder, but she shied away from his hand.
    “I’m real!” she screamed.
    He reached out for her again and she awkwardly shoved him away. Then she flipped around and pounded on the door, which soon clicked open. He reached again and she threw her hand toward him wildly, scraping the underside of his wrist with her fingernails. She flung herself out of the door and ran down the hallway crying.
    Dylan banged his head hard enough against the door, causing it to slam shut.

Chapter Seven
    Dylan believed that no matter how lifelike holoConferencing became—and it was pretty impressive nowadays—a firm handshake wasn’t likely to be mimicked any time soon. As such, he traveled far more than his colleagues, and always had a spare bag packed and ready to go. His argument with Kristina had made him late, but his prepacked bag would help him make up the time.
    Miss Home said in hushed tones, “Dylan, a taxi transport is waiting for you outside.”
    “Thanks, tell them I’ll be right down.”
    The cab was not unlike his own transport. It was slightly longer in length, allowing for two separate cabins, a small front cabin for the driver—of which there usually was none—and a larger passenger cabin. Two plush faux-leather recliners and one love seat resided in the passenger cabin, along with a Plexiglas amenities bar. The wall at the front was black, occluding any view of the mysterious and perhaps nonexistent driver. The other walls and ceiling were transparent with no shading.
    As Dylan sat down on one of the recliners, the cabdriver’s voice drifted ubiquitously around him, “Where to, sir?”
    “Interstate high-speed magRail,” Dylan responded.
    The cabbie replied several beats later, “Did