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  I placed the implant in the applicator, then hesitated, but not for long. This wasn't the time to agonize; I'd agonized for months, and I was sick of it. Any more indecisiveness and I'd need to buy a second implant to convince me to use the first. I wasn't committing a crime; I wasn't even coming close to guaranteeing that I would commit one. Millions of people held the belief that human life was nothing special, but how many of them were murderers? The next three days would simply reveal how I reacted to that belief, and although the attitude would be hard-wired, the consequences were far from certain.

  I put the applicator in my left nostril; and pushed the release button. There was a brief stinging sensation, nothing more.

  I thought, Amy would have despised me for this. That shook me, but only for a moment. Amy was dead, which made her hypothetical feelings irrelevant. Nothing I did could hurt her now, and thinking any other way was crazy.

  I tried to monitor the progress of the change, but that was a joke; you can't check your moral precepts by introspection every thirty seconds. After all, my assessment of myself as being unable to kill had been based on decades of observation (much of it probably out of date). What's more, that assessment, that self-image, had come to be as much a cause of my actions and attitudes as a reflection of them—and apart from the direct changes the implant was making to my brain, it was breaking that feedback loop by providing a rationalization for me to act in a way I'd convinced myself was impossible.

  After a while, I decided to get drunk, to distract myself from the vision of microscopic robots crawling around in my skull. It was a big mistake; alcohol makes me paranoid. I don't recall much of what followed, except for catching sight of myself in the bathroom mirror, screaming, "HAL's breaking First law! HAL's breaking First Law!" before vomiting copiously.

  I woke just after midnight, on the bathroom floor. I took an anti-hangover pill, and in five minutes my headache and nausea were gone. I showered and put on fresh clothes. I'd bought a jacket especially for the occasion, with an inside pocket for the gun.

  It was still impossible to tell if the thing had done anything to me that went beyond the placebo effect; I asked myself, out loud, "Is human life sacred? Is it wrong to kill?" but I couldn't concentrate on the question, and I found it hard to believe that I ever had in the past; the whole idea seemed obscure and difficult, like some esoteric mathematical theorem. The prospect of going ahead with my plans made my stomach churn, but that was simple fear, not moral outrage; the implant wasn't meant to make me brave, or calm, or resolute. I could have bought those qualities too, but that would have been cheating.

  I'd had Anderson checked out by a private investigator. He worked every night but Sunday, as a bouncer in a Surry Hills nightclub; he lived nearby, and usually arrived home, on foot, at around four in the morning. I'd driven past his terrace house several times, I'd have no trouble finding it. He lived alone; he had a lover, but they always met at her place, in the afternoon or early evening.

  I loaded the gun and put it in my jacket, then spent half an hour staring in the mirror, trying to decide if the bulge was visible. I wanted a drink, but I restrained myself. I switched on the radio and wandered through the house, trying to become less agitated. Perhaps taking a life was now no big deal to me, but I could still end up dead, or in prison, and the implant apparently hadn't rendered me uninterested in my own fate.

  I left too early, and had to drive by a circuitous route to kill time; even then, it was only a quarter past three when I parked, a kilometer from Anderson's house. A few cars and taxis passed me as I walked the rest of the way, and I'm sure I was trying so hard to look at ease that my body language radiated guilt and paranoia—but no ordinary driver would have noticed or cared, and I didn't see a single patrol car.

  When I reached the place, there was nowhere to hide—no gardens, no trees, no fences—but I'd known that in advance. I chose a house across the street, not quite opposite Anderson's, and sat on the front step. If the occupant appeared, I'd feign drunkenness and stagger away.

  I sat and waited. It was a warm, still, ordinary night; the sky was clear, but grey and starless thanks to the lights of the city. I kept reminding myself: You don't have to do this, you don't have to go through with it. So why did I stay? The hope of being liberated from my sleepless nights? The idea was laughable; I had no doubt that if I killed Anderson, it would torture me as much as my helplessness over Amy's death.

  Why did I stay? It was nothing to do with the implant; at most, that was neutralizing my qualms; it wasn't forcing me to do anything.

  Why, then? In the end, I think I saw it as a matter of honesty. I had to accept the unpleasant fact that I honestly wanted to kill Anderson, and however much I had also been repelled by the notion, to be true to myself I had to do it—anything less would have been hypocrisy and self-deception.

  At five to four, I heard footsteps echoing down the street. As I turned, I hoped it would be someone else, or that he would be with a friend, but it was him, and he was alone. I waited until he was as far from his front door as I was, then I started walking. He glanced my way briefly, then ignored me. I felt a shock of pure fear—I hadn't seen him in the flesh since the trial, and I'd forgotten how physically imposing he was.

  I had to force myself to slow down, and even then I passed him sooner than I'd meant to. I was wearing light, rubber-soled shoes, he was in heavy boots, but when I crossed the street and did a U-turn towards him, I couldn't believe he couldn't hear my heartbeat, or smell the stench of my sweat. Meters from the door, just as I finished pulling out the gun, he looked over his shoulder with an expression of bland curiosity, as if he might have been expecting a dog or a piece of windblown litter. He turned around to face me, frowning. I just stood there, pointing the gun at him, unable to speak. Eventually he said, "What the fuck do you want? I've got two hundred dollars in my wallet. Back pocket."

  I shook my head. "Unlock the front door, then put your hands on your head and kick it open. Don't try closing it on me."

  He hesitated, then complied.

  "Now walk in. Keep your hands on your head. Five steps, that's all. Count them out loud. I'll be right behind you."

  I reached the light switch for the hall as he counted four, then I slammed the door behind me, and flinched at the sound. Anderson was right in front of me, and I suddenly felt trapped. The man was a vicious killer; I hadn't even thrown a punch since I was eight years old. Did I really believe the gun would protect me? With his hands on his head, the muscles of his arms and shoulders bulged against his shirt. I should have shot him right then, in the back of the head. This was an execution, not a duel; if I'd wanted some quaint idea of honor, I would have come without a gun and let him take me to pieces.

  I said, "Turn left." Left was the living room. I followed him in, switched on the light. "Sit." I stood in the doorway, he sat in the room's only chair. For a moment, I felt dizzy and my vision seemed to tilt, but I don't think I moved, I don't think I sagged or swayed; if I had, he probably would have rushed me.

  "What do you want?" he asked.

  I had to give that a lot of thought. I'd fantasized this situation a thousand times, but I could no longer remember the details—although I did recall that I'd usually assumed that Anderson would recognize me, and start volunteering excuses and explanations straight away.

  Finally, I said, "I want you to tell me why you killed my wife."

  "I didn't kill your wife. Miller killed your wife."

  I shook my head. "That's not true. I know. The cops told me. Don't bother lying, because I know."

  He stared at me blandly. I wanted to lose my temper and scream, but I had a feeling that, in spite of the gun, that would have been more comical than intimidating. I could have pistol-whipped him, but the truth is I was afraid to go near him.

  So I shot him in the foot. He yelped and swore, then leant over to inspect the damage. "Fuck you!" he hissed. "Fuck you!" He rocked back and forth, holding his foot. "I'll break your fucking neck
! I'll fucking kill you!" The wound bled a little through the hole in his boot, but it was nothing compared to the movies. I'd heard that the vaporizing ammunition had a cauterizing effect.

  I said, "Tell me why you killed my wife."

  He looked far more angry and disgusted than afraid, but he dropped his pretence of innocence. "It just happened," he said. "It was just one of those things that happens."

  I shook my head, annoyed. "No. Why? Why did it happen?"

  He moved as if to take off his boot, then thought better of it. "Things were going wrong. There was a time lock, there was hardly any cash, everything was just a big fuck-up. I didn't mean to do it. It just happened."

  I shook my head again, unable to decide if he was a moron, or if he was stalling. "Don't tell me 'it just happened.' Why did it happen? Why did you do it?"

  The frustration was mutual; he ran a hand through his hair and scowled at me. He was sweating now, but I couldn't tell if it was from pain or from fear. "What do you want me to say? I lost my temper, all right? Things were going badly, and I lost my fucking temper, and there she was, all right?"

  The dizziness struck me again, but this time it didn't subside. I understood now; he wasn't being obtuse, he was telling the entire truth. I'd smashed the occasional coffee cup during a tense situation at work. I'd even, to my shame, kicked our dog once, after a fight with Amy. Why? I'd lost my fucking temper and there she was.

  I stared at Anderson, and felt myself grinning stupidly. It was all so clear now. I understood. I understood the absurdity of everything I'd ever felt for Amy—my "love," my "grief." It had all been a joke. She was meat, she was nothing. All the pain of the past five years evaporated; I was drunk with relief. I raised my arms and spun around slowly. Anderson leapt up and sprung towards me; I shot him in the chest until I ran out of bullets, then I knelt down beside him. He was dead.

  I put my gun in my jacket. The barrel was warm. I remembered to use my handkerchief to open the front door. I half expected to find a crowd outside, but of course the shots had been inaudible, and Anderson's threats and curses were not likely to have attracted attention.

  A block from the house, a patrol car appeared around a corner. It slowed almost to a halt as it approached me. I kept my eyes straight ahead as it passed. I heard the engine idle. Then stop. I kept on walking, waiting for a shouted command, thinking: if they search me and find the gun, I'll confess; there's no point in prolonging the agony.

  The engine spluttered, revved noisily, and the car roared away.

  Perhaps I'm not the number-one most obvious suspect. I don't know what Anderson was involved in since he got out; maybe there are hundreds of other people who had far better reasons for wanting him dead, and perhaps when the cops have finished with them, they'll get around to asking me what I was doing that night. A month seems an awfully long time, though. Anyone would think they didn't care.

  The same teenagers as before are gathered around the entrance, and again the mere sight of me seems to disgust them. I wonder if the taste in fashion and music tattooed on their brains is set to fade in a year or two, or if they have sworn lifelong allegiance. It doesn't bear contemplating.

  This time, I don't browse. I approach the sales counter without hesitation.

  This time, I know exactly what I want.

  What I want is what I felt that night: the unshakeable conviction that Amy's death—let alone Anderson's—simply didn't matter, any more than the death of a fly or an amoeba, any more than breaking a coffee cup or kicking a dog.

  My one mistake was thinking that the insight I gained would simply vanish when the implant cut out. It hasn't. It's been clouded with doubts and reservations, it's been undermined, to some degree, by my whole ridiculous panoply of beliefs and superstitions, but I can still recall the peace it gave me, I can still recall that flood of joy and relief, and I want it back. Not for three days; for the rest of my life.

  Killing Anderson wasn't honest, it wasn't "being true to myself." Being true to myself would have meant living with all my contradictory urges, suffering the multitude of voices in my head, accepting confusion and doubt. It's too late for that now; having tasted the freedom of certainty, I find I can't live without it.

  "How can I help you, sir?" The salesman smiles from the bottom of his heart.

  Part of me, of course, still finds the prospect of what I am about to do totally repugnant.

  No matter. That won't last.

  REMEMBER'D KISSES

  Michael F. Flynn

  Born in Easton, Pennsylvania, Michael F. Flynn has a BA in math from La Salle College and an MS for work in topology from Marquette University, and works as an industrial quality engineer and statistician. Since his first sale there in 1984, Flynn has become a mainstay of Analog, and one of their most frequent contributors. He has also made sales to The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Asimov's Science Fiction, and elsewhere, and is thought of as one of the best of the crop of new "hard science " writers. His first novel was the well-received In the Country of the Blind. It was followed by Fallen Angels, a novel written in collaboration with Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle, and a solo novel The Nanotech Chronicles. His most recent book is a collection , The Forest of Time and Other Stories. He now lives in Edison, N.J.

  Flynn has written frequently about the promise and the dangers of nanotechnology, in nanotech-oriented stories such as "Soul of the City," "The Washer at the Ford," "The Laughing Clone," and "The Blood Upon the Rose." In the unsettling story that follows, he suggests that sometimes, even after the most grievous of loses, even with the most-advanced of technology at your disposal, you really should leave well-enough alone . . .

  Click.

  A mechanical sound. A relay, perhaps. A flip-flop switch or maybe a butterfly valve. Very soft. Almost muffled.

  Sigh.

  And that was hydraulics. Escape gas bleeding off. Pressure relief. Again, a muted sound, not particularly obtrusive.

  Click.

  It was a metronome. A syncopation. If you focused all your attention on it, it could become—

  Sigh.

  —quite relaxing. Hypnotic even. It would be easy to lose oneself in its rhythm.

  Click!

  The sudden hand on his shoulder made him start.

  "Mr. Carter?"

  Sigh.

  He turned, unwilling; guided by the gentle but persistent pressure of the hand on his shoulder. His vision rotated, camera-like. Away from the equipment; along the tubing, hanging in catenary loops; past the blinking monitors; toward the sight that he had been avoiding ever since he had stepped into the room.

  Click.

  "Yes, Doctor?" His voice was listless, uninterested. He heard it as if he were a spectator at a very bad play.

  "We did all we could, Mr. Carter. The medics stabilized her as soon as the police cut her out of the car. But I'm afraid there was little else they could do."

  Sigh.

  He looked at the doctor, turning his head quickly, so that the bed itself flicked across his vision without registering. But his subconscious saw the subliminal afterimage and began sending messages of pain and fear.

  Click.

  "I understand, Doctor. . . ." He glanced at the name tag pinned to the white uniform, trying not to notice the little splashes of red on the sleeves and on the chest. "I understand, Doctor Lapointe. I'm sure you did everything possible."

  "If we had gotten to her sooner, or if the trauma had been less severe, we might have been able to repair the damage. There have been incredible advances in tissue repair nano-machines in the last several years. . . ."

  Sigh.

  Henry Norris Carter wondered if the doctor thought he was being comforting. Tell me more, he thought. Tell me all the different ways you might have saved her. If only. If only this advance had been made; if only that had been done sooner. If only. If only.

  Well, take it as he meant it. "Yes, Doctor Lapointe, but I'm sure you understand that such speculations cannot make me fe
el any better about what's happened." (And a part of his mind curled up and gibbered, Nothing's happened! Nothing's happened!) "I'm quite aware of the advances in nanotechnology. My wife and I both work—" He suddenly realized he had used the present tense and stopped, confused. "—no, worked—" But that wasn't right, either. Not yet. "I mean we were both genetic engineers at SingerLabs over in New Jersey. We both donated DNA to the cell library there. As long as we're talking 'if only's,' if only I had her cell samples with me—"

  "No, Mr. Carter, you mustn't think that. As I said, the trauma was too severe. Even the most advanced nanomachines are still too slow to have saved your wife before irreversible brain damage set in."

  So. Finally. He forced himself to look directly at the figure on the bed. The maze of tubing crawled snake-like around it. Encircling it; binding it; piercing it. Up nose. Down throat. Into vein and groin. Pushing the fluids and the gasses in and sucking them out, because the body itself had given up the task. The click/sigh of the respirator faded into the background.

  The contours of the sheet were not quite right; as if parts of what was under it were missing. The doctors, he supposed, had cobbled the body back together as best they could, but their hearts hadn't been entirely in it. The whole left side of her face was an ugly purple bruise. And the symmetry of her nose and cheekbones and jaw was irretrievably lost. The right eye was closed, as if sleeping; and the left— The left eye was hidden under a mass of bandages. If it's there at all. Judging by the extent of the damage on that side, it was doubtful that the eye had remained in its socket.

  He wanted to scream and his stomach gave a queer flip-flop and his knees felt suddenly weak. He trembled all over. Don't think about that. Think about anything else. Think about—