"Radio, this is another world. Why play Earth music?"

"Owen knew his good friend the Green Radio was part of the Observatory. That it had been alone a long time. Owen had repeatedly been given this information."

"You pointed me at a downed plane, and said it was a spy aircraft from world war two. How did you get ahold of it?"

"The Big Broadcast."

"Yes, that's the name on the plane. How did it end up here?"

"Owen would be given the tale shortly, but first: a word from Doctor Jeffrey Harrigan, known as the First Human."

I dropped the shovel. "What?"

"Did you like my present?" It was him, sly and cold. I hadn't heard his voice in weeks, but it cut right through. Right in there. The guy who paralyzes you, puts you in a cage in the dark, who burns your friends right before your eyes. Call me Doctor Jeff. That guy.

"The Doctor was in his office, full of what may have been medical equipment. He wore his office casual garb, topped with the white lab coat. On the folding plastic table in front of him, Harrigan was working with his reasonably-priced tablet computer."

He purred some more: "She's lovely, isn't she? I knew you'd like her."

"Cassie. She's doing okay. Send Armand."

"That's not on the table, Owen. You're doing well out there, all by yourself."

"By myself? Lots of people live here."

"Animals. Those little dinosaur creatures, the weather balloons. Because you can't make real friends, you have those?"

"Do you want something? Why are you talking to me at all?"

"I sent you a lovely lady as a gesture of goodwill. To do with as you please! Let's talk about Sean; I thought you'd taken him, but I was able to get him back again just two days ago. Did you have anything to do with that?"

"You mean you were able to rebuild him? Reboot him, whatever you call it? Only one version at a time."

"Well look at you, figuring out that part. Yes, just one at a a time, otherwise I'd have an island of Cassie Nillssons frolicking about with nothing to wear. To you I seem like a monster, I'm sure."

"Oh, you absolutely are. Endlessly killing and rebuilding people? You think it would hold up in front of a judge?"

He snorted. "The courts have changed on Earth."

"How about the court of public opinion? You think the parents of these kids would allow this?"

"It's an interesting question, isn't it? I think they would. If you give them a licensing fee, I think people would allow it just fine. It wouldn't be for their actual children, after all, and I'm betting people wouldn't care otherwise. You're all just copies."

"What do you want me to tell Sean? Remind him that he's just a copy, that he has no rights, and should just get his little fanny back to dad, pronto, chop chop?"

There was a pause. "Sean is here. Iteration 230."

"He's here too. He got himself a soul down there in your cage, just like I did. Just like you and Mandy, he's the newest god in the squad. He doesn't want to go back to you. He seems to be a being of pure thought, Doctor. Smarter than you or I. He's beyond Human, I think. He's something new."

Why was I telling him? Why do that?

Guns over the table, that's why.

It felt right so I kept on. "How long did you leave him down there? How many times have you killed him already?"

"A decent number. Y'know, you're getting upset over nothing. Sean is alive on Earth; still is. The real Sean, my actual son. What do you care, anyway? You never get along with him. Too antisocial."

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"I'm being judged by someone who let his kid die in a cage."

"He shouldn't have died. He was only down there a few days."

I couldn't hold back an incredulous laugh. "Father of the year. Tell me, do you and the Sean on Earth, the Real Sean, have a good relationship?"

"Of cour-r-rse," he said, bungling the word, unable to say it convincingly.

"Because it seems to me a man keeps rebuilding his son, trying to get it right, over and over again, has some issues with that son. Does he even talk to you, that real Sean? Ever?"

"I'm asking the questions. How do you have a soul? How does Sean?"

"No idea. I don't even know if I want one."

"It means you, or some part of you, will live forever."

"That sounds awful."

"I read your file again. You didn't make much of an effort to succeed in society, did you? I can see why, with the pathetic failure of an existence you made for yourself on Earth, you wouldn't want eternal life."

"Quite the charm offensive there, Doctor. But is that your project? I figured it was you just farming people out for replacement body parts or cheap labor."

I heard what might have been a subtle indrawn breath. Not a tremendous gasp of shock, but there nonetheless.

Bullseye? Not quite, I thought, but in the neighborhood of bullseye.

His reactions were valuable, so I kept at him. "No value to a bunch of idiots like us on your island, right? Just a lot of doofuses. But what if you could do it with, say, a platoon of dedicated, trained soldiers? Just whip some up with your Magic trick, let them take the hill, win whatever war, then the green fire. No pensions, no medical care. No witnesses to war crimes you order them to commit."

I heard the angry blast from his nostrils. "I need that soul."

"Or doctors. You can just print out a new one, or whatever you call it. And the recipe itself never goes bad, right? As long as you have the material for the bodies, which I don't know how you get. Doctors, skilled work of all sorts. Financial wizards, movie makers, whatever. Pet geniuses that do things you can't. You know, slaves. Disposable people."

He was indignant. Offended. "That's not my goal. I can see why you'd get the idea, though; you're more than I expected, I'll give you that."

"Thanks."

I could hear it. A slow smile. The real reason for the call. "I have something to show you."

Here it came. The thing he needed to feel like he'd scored a victory. Here it came, and it would be bad.

"I don't know how things work with you. I want to show you something on my screen. Can we do that?"

The Radio played a bed of creepy background orchestra music. "Harrigan leaned back into his chair again." Creak. "His tablet computer was facing upward on his table. On the screen was a detailed personality description of Owen Walsh, first recorded 2025–"

"Ready, Eye of Sauron? Take a look on the screen, if you're not looking already. Go on."

The Radio narrated again: "When viewed through the double-cracked monitor, the video played tinny sounds through the old speaker. Laughter of young people, eager anticipation of a good meal."

I whispered: "Radio. Lower right. Date. Later."

Harrigan: "You know those little turkey dino animals you have infesting your place? The ones you have a creepy affection for? They have Magic; the Harrigan force, I mean. I turned it off, all of it, when they came here for help. Turns out they really need that magic. I think it's a key to their metabolic process."

The Radio: "The camera shakily zoomed in on a wooden spit over the campfire. There were eight things roasting there; they resembled poultry, skinned and cleaned, but with long, heavy tails–"

I drew in a breath.

"The video cut to the happy young people, all eating their fill. The camera swung around, showing everyone, satisfied, with the exception of a young man who appeared to be Owen Walsh, standing with what appeared to be a joint of meat in one hand, looking at it, confusion on his face and hunger–Harrigan paused the video here, keeping the blurred face of Owen in the frame–"

"You ate it," Harrigan said breezily. "Everyone ate that night. This was Owen iteration…I'd guess 24. You'd never met any nonhumans. The little dino critters have souls, I'm sure you're aware by now."

The guys. Schmendrick's people specifically.

"So it's carrot and stick for you," Harrigan said. "I need that soul, that thing that thinks it's my son. Imagine Cassie Nillson as a carrot. Plenty more where she came from, yeah? And the stick? How much do you care about your pets there, really? Or about the so-called people living here with me? Something to think about. Give me that soul."

I was trying to come up with something. A zinger. A way to rid his voice of gloating, to shut his smug face up. Anything.

"Doctor Harrigan had concluded the conversation," the Radio said.

I sat heavily in the dirt. Gary found me there, my face in my hands, and asserted that I was a fool. Gary had a point.

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