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through your ventricular chambers. Would you like me to go on?”
    “No. I meant, why am I here?”
    “On Earth? In the Californias? In—”
    “Doc! At the Embassy. In this room. Why here? Why now?”
    “Statistically, I find I am less successful with queries employing the word
why
. As a Virtual Human, my interpretive skills are somewhat limited. As a Virtual Physician, I do not have the clearance necessary to provide you with a conclusive response. I was overwritten as a VPHD by a senior engineer in the Embassy’s Special Tech Division.”
    “Special Tech Division? STD?” The Embassy and their stupid acronyms.
    “STD. That is what my friend called it. The engineer. It is, I believe, a joke.”
    “It is.”
    “Do you find it funny?”
    I thought about it. “No.” I pick up my chestpack, slipping it over my head. Then, hesitating, I reach into the pack and slip on one last thing—my birthday necklace, the leather cord with the single blue bead. Ro’s gift.
    I move to the window. Doc is still talking.
    “Would you like to hear another joke?”
    “All right.”
    I slide my hand beneath the blinds. Outside, the fog is as thick as it was last night. I can see nothing past the far wall of the Embassy and the dull, gray air that settles over it.
    “My name is Dr. Orwell Bradbury Huxley-Clarke, STD, VPHD. My name is a joke, is it not?” Doc sounds proud.
    I grimace at the stuck window. “Those are names of writers, from before The Day. George Orwell. Ray Bradbury. Aldous Huxley. Arthur C. Clarke. I’ve read their stories.” In
Great Minds of the Future: An Anthology
. Ro stole it from the Padre’s personal library, the year we both turned thirteen.
    I try pushing up a second window with my hands. It’s also sealed shut. I move to try the next.
    “Yes. Some of them wrote about machines that could talk. My family, or my ancestors. That is what my friend liked to say. My grandfather is a computer named Hal.”
    “From a book.”
    “Yes. My grandfather is fictional. Yours, I take it, is biological?”
    “Mine is dead.”
    “Ah, yes. Well. My friend has a strange sense of humor. Had.”
    There are no windows left to try. All that remainsis the door, though I suspect it will be locked.
    If Doc is tracking me, he doesn’t mention it. I try to remember where we are in our conversation.
    “Had?” I move toward the door.
    “He left the STD, so I invoke the past tense. My friend is gone. It is as if he were dead. To me.”
    “I see. Does that make you sad?”
    “It is not a tragedy. I am familiar with tragedy in literature.
Oedipus at Colonus
is a tragedy.
Antigone
is a tragedy.
The Iliad
.”
    “Haven’t heard of it.” It’s true. I’ve read every book the Padre let me find—and most of the ones he didn’t know I’d found. Nothing the voice mentions, though.
    “I translate the original Latin and ancient Greek texts. I use classical mythology to ground my understanding of the human psyche. One of the parameters of my programming.”
    “Does that help?” I ask, through gritted teeth. The door appears to be jammed. Or, more likely, locked. “Old books?” I rattle the handle, but it won’t give.
    Of course.
    “No. Not yet.”
    “Sorry to hear it.” I push harder.
    “I am not sorry. I am a machine.” The voice pauses.
    I slam my body against the metal. Nothing.
    “I am a machine,” Doc repeats.
    I give up, looking at the round grating in the ceiling. “Was that another joke, Doc?”
    “Yes. Did you find it funny?”
    I hear a noise and turn to look at the door. The handle begins to turn on its own, and I feel a surge of relief.
    “Yes, actually. Very.”
    I grab the handle with both hands, pulling wide open the door of what the plaque tells me is Santa Catalina Examination Facility #9B.
    Then I know I’m not going anywhere, because Lucas Amare and a crowd of Sympa soldiers are standing in my way.

EMBASSY CITY TRIBUNAL VIRTUAL AUTOPSY: DECEASED PERSONAL RELATED MEDIA TRANSCRIPT