“OK, I guess.” The tone of my voice sounded unfamiliar to me.
I pushed myself up. There was a mirror on the wall to my right. My body was that of a man in his forties. Fairly thin, and devoid of chest hair. My fingers were clean—not the hands of a lavatory cleaner.
It’s sort of weird to be in someone else’s body, hovering in that space between identities where one starts to wonder whether it’s one’s body or one’s mind that establishes who we are. As construct agent, artificial human, I can tell you the secret: it’s both.
The doctor stood there watching me. I realised that, though this procedure might be routine to me, it wasn’t to him. People in Ganymede travelled on the passenger liners. They had money and time to spare, and the best anti-aging treatment money could buy. He might never
