The Soul Continuum by Simon West-Bulford Page A

the knee in the wrong direction, and the skin has split on my right kneecap to reveal what I think might be cartilage poking through pinky-red mush, and yet I really don’t feel the pain.
    â€œHello? Excuse me, I have got blood on your nice clean ball wall. Ha! Ball wall.”
    I think the little hatch opening in the floor a few paces away from me might be an automated response rather than an answer to my call, because it busies itself rapidly scanning me rather than addressing me in any way. An articulated metal appendage examines my injuries with a pin-spot red laser light and a series of random beeps. It pauses after shining its beam into both my eyes, and then a spike the length of my forearm shoots out from the end, twists above me in a manner that is obviously threatening, and lances my temple.

TEN

    I wake suddenly in another new place and feel an ache in my lungs and a throbbing rush of blood in my head that fills my ears, but it only lasts for a few seconds. My blurred vision sharpens to show me clean white walls, and a gentle hum replaces the rushing in my ears. A metallic male voice breaks through:

    Cellular generation complete.
    Circulatory systems stimulated.
    Neural transfer complete.
    Subject 9.98768E+14 resurrection successful.

    My eyes are adjusting to the light and the walls are becoming more defined: cushioned, like soft white leather, with gentle lighting coming from lamps embedded at regular intervals. I am inside a booth. The floor is warm on my soles as I take tentative steps out into a wider space. It is a large cylindrical room, also with cushioned walls and more booths set into them, all empty, save for one to my right.
    There is a woman within. She is naked. Beautiful with bronzed skin, flowing silver hair, and large, deep brown eyes staring upward to the roof of her booth so that it is mostly the whites I see. She is festooned with cables covering her modesty, and pain twists her youthful features. She is still but for the erratic movement of her chest, as though the many coils of silver penetrating her skin are causing her great difficulty in breathing.
    I take two slow steps toward her. “Hello? Are you hurt?”
    She flinches, blinks several times, and scrunches her eyes before setting her gaze on me. “Salem,” she says.
    â€œNo,” I say. “Salomi. My name is Salomi Deya. Who are you?”
    Pain causes her to flinch again, and there is a moment of confusion in her eyes before she answers, “Oluvia . . . Wade. I am Queen Oluvia Wade.”
    I shake my head and shrug. “Don’t know you. Where am I? I was at home. Well, it was Saliel actually, and then I was—”
    â€œListen to me,” she says. “You are not who you think you are, and I have very little time to explain. The virus is . . .” She flinches again and cries out.
    â€œYou’re sick?”
    â€œYes. I am dying, and I need you to do exactly as I say before we run out of time. When this body expires, there cannot be another.”
    â€œIs it those cables? Shall I pull them out?”
    â€œNo. I did this. Needed to connect to the Control Core . . . Needed to . . .”
    â€œCan I get you out of there?”
    â€œNo time. I need you to listen to me.”
    â€œI’m listening.”
    â€œGood.” She seems to relax a little as she controls her breathing. Oluvia studies me. “You truly do not know who you are?”
    â€œOf course I do. I’m Salomi . . .” I look at my hands, my feet, hear the deep tone of my voice again. “I’m Salomi Deya . . . aren’t I?”
    Oluvia’s eyes lose focus for a moment, as if she is trying to remember something. “Your name, your real name, is Salem Ben. The person you believe you are died many billions of years ago. This place is called the Soul Consortium. It is a place that holds the memories of every human being who ever lived, and you, Salem, are the last human. You are living the