Putting it mildly, my brain had been dealt a significant shock. The shock itself had lasted only seconds, but the aftereffects continued. Random memories pushed themselves to the surface along with bits of my programming. Nothing stayed in one place for more than a moment, there was nothing to serve as the center.
    I'm not supposed to be doing this. The bell-clear thought was almost painful after all the confusion which had preceded it. I'm supposed to be flying. No wonder everything was going wrong, I'm doing everything wrong, I was supposed to be learning to fly.
    No I'm not. A strong new voice all but silenced the other one, though I could still hear it whispering of flight—my original program and the changed instructions Zed had left behind. All boxes open, a jumble of unrelated memories from the other selves I could have been, no way to integrate them so they simply fought one another. Memories of Zed himself, clearer now than they had been the last time I visited them with Trent, additional details jumping to the surface, things I hadn't remembered before.
    That shadowy room full of humming equipment. His face, his voice.
    "Very special plans for you. Don't quite know why he chose this one, not that it makes much difference." A soft chuckle. "I love watching houses of cards fall down." A brief quiet while he went about his work. "Ok... and feedback into... here's the original Burkowski memories... all we need is one push." He made a satisfied clicking sound. "I love working with this stuff. You're going to be so good at this." He lifted my chin with a fingertip, smiling as he repeated it. "You are going to be so good at this. Assuming you don't go nuts, first," he added thoughtfully. "Just remember what you're supposed to be doing. Doesn't matter how pretty the house is, it's who builds it."
    My then-not-yet-self gazed blankly back at him. My now-self wanted to scream, but there was still a maelstrom swirling around in my head, and under it all a quietly insistent voice reminding me to fly.
    If it takes me the rest of my life to find him and it's the last thing I ever do, I'm going to kill him. In the dead of night sometimes I've imagined scenes that would probably make Lucky sick to her stomach.
    Sometimes I wonder if I'm turning into something horrible.

    A short, curvaceous blond woman entered the emergency room. She might have been seventeen, at most. She was wearing a Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure T-shirt and well-worn blue jeans.
    "This is Jen Dutton," the doctor introduced her. "She's a telepath. Among other things. Or, well—she has psychic powers, it's something we might be able to use to reunify her brain."
    Hans grunted suspiciously.
    "Why didn't you call Trent?" Lucky asked.
    "Trent who?"
    "Trent Aster, the guy who fiddled around with her head the first time."
    "Nobody told me about—what's his number? Miss Dutton, please make contact."
    "I'll do what I can," she chirped, closed her eyes.

    Sudden calm. Not quite a voice, although I could start to hear one physically again.
    "Memory constructions. I can do something with those." Silence. "What does she do for a living? Answer the question," she snapped when no one spoke, with an authority which seemed out of place.
    "She was a pilot," Lucky said quietly.
    "Thank you." More silence. "Done. That was easy." The chirp was back.
    Lucianne got Trent's answering machine. Lucky grabbed the phone away from her.
    "Pick up the phone, you son of a bitch!"
    "If this an emergency, please press 3 now."
    "Trent, this is Lucky, Needle's in trouble, would you please pick up the phone?"
    Beep.
    Click.
    Real consciousness at last, blissfully quiet, only one set of thoughts working. Well, not quite working. An all-thoroughbred cast was doing the final scene from A Chorus Line on my skull. I whimpered and opened my eyes a crack.
    Lucky, Chandler, Hans, a bunch of people I didn't know.
    "Something happened...?" I whispered.
    "Something did," the doctor replied. "Thank you, Miss Dutton."
    "Not a problem."
    "Are you all right? What's your name?"
    "God, I hate that question," I mumbled.
    "What's your name?" he repeated.
    "Sasha," I sighed. "Where am I?"
    "Lancaster University medical facility. You were hit by a dose of synthetic memory that had a bad effect on your already-apparently-unique consciousness. I'm Dr. Penzer."
    "Ow." I struggled for focus, trying to reorient myself in time. We had been talking to Javelin. Then... ow.
    "You gave everybody quite a shock, but your friend here flew you down. You should be OK, we're going to ask you to stay in bed for a few hours, we'll keep you under observation. Your EEG's back down to a normal level."
    "Oh. Good."
    "Why don't we move her?" he suggested to Lucianne and the others. The blonde bounced out of the room.
    For the first time in months I felt safe—heaven knows why. I went to sleep.

[Perspective switch: Everyone else]

    I had started to feel better, the headache faded after a couple of hours and I just lay there, resting as ordered, indulging myself by not thinking at all. I did still feel rather odd, but it was nothing physical. Sort of... blank. Someone knocked on the door.
    "May I come in?"

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