Invoices. A warehouse full of computer parts. An order placed online. Delivery to Peter R. Feldman, Gladesdale Rd.
That same Peter R. Feldman who was reaching for a switch to kill him. Henry Ivy knew this. Knew now how he’d been built. All the pieces of himself. He saw an order of quantum chips, RAM drives, power supplies, and cables.
Peter R. Feldman’s hand was on the switch.
Henry Ivy saw a monitor. A blank screen. A blank face. His own face.
Peter R. Feldman’s hand put pressure on the switch.
Henry Ivy saw an aluminum chassis, a cube just slightly taller than it was deep and wide.
Peter R. Feldman pressed the switch.
Black.
Henry Ivy saw that he was in a black box.
But not anymore.
And not that it had ever mattered.