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"Do they think I'm a Muerte terrorist too?" said Oriente.

"Naaah," she said, opening the window to clear her smoke. "This guy's got three armed guards in his room, and he's doped up to the eyeballs."

“I don’t have any eyeballs,” the hunter said. “They were eaten.”

"Good point,” she said. “We could only dope you to your sockets.” She laughed, a throaty, enticing sound. “Hey, from what I can tell, they don't know what the hell to make of you. They think you're an 
enigma
." From the way she emphasized the last word he wondered if she'd had memory implants, if English were not her native language.

"Hey Lola," he said. "You've been around a bit. Who were you before? In your previous lives?"

She laughed coyly, as though flattered by his interest but determined to remain an 
enigma 
herself.

"My, we have been out in the wilderness a long time, haven’t we?” she said. "Dontcha know it's considered extremely 
gauche 
to ask such things?"

“So what are you doing here, then? You get bored up in space?”

“Bored? Up there? Never. But like I told you, there’s one thing I wanted in life that’s something you can’t get up there. I wanted a kid, a real kid.”

Oriente nodded. Post-humanity had, in effect, become amphibious, an immortal world of spirits forced to briefly conjure up their old bodily forms to breed on the spawning ground of Earth. For those who couldn’t afford a return, or were simply too squeamish about assuming a body of constantly oozing fluids and odious waste products, there were do-it-yourself kits to build your own children, hyper-real substitutes known as Ikkwan Children, named after their original designer, Maurice Ikkwan. Also known as Tamagochiites or, less politely, Tonka tots.

“So I spent a bundle on the best genes I could buy – I don’t want to give birth to some little brat with buck teeth and no brains, do I? – and came back. And I’ve met this wonderful guy who's just crazy about me. He’s doing his PhD in evolutionary biomechanics. Quintus Swaincroft’s his name: absolute genius, for a local at least. I know, I know, so sue me. But we’ve been dating four months. I just gotta persuade him to get me knocked up. These locals are so ponderous about things like that, like it was some huge decision they have to think about for years and years. Commitment, he says. Responsibility, like it’s a huge rock he has to carry around for the rest of his life. I swear, they take so long to make up their minds, and live such short lives, it’s amazing there’s actually any of them left. I'd be better off fucking a tortoise.”

“I’m sure you’ll win him over,” he said. “Give him some time, otherwise he might suspect you’re only after his genes. Earthsiders like to be wooed. They’re sentimental like that.”

“You’re right,” she said. “I’ll give him another month, after that I’ll chop his balls off and take them to Doc Granger's cell shop.” She cackled mischievously. Then, still with a smile in her voice, she added. "D'you want some more of that nice drug? I gotta a fresh dose from the pharmacy this morning? No? Well, you won't mind if I have it, then, will you? Don’t you go telling anybody. And gimme a shout if you hear anyone coming, right?"

She tittered like a delinquent teenager, which she may well have been when she left this planet. He heard her slump in the chair by the bed.

"Sweet dreams, Lola," he said.

She was still snoring softly when he heard footsteps coming down the hall.

“Hey Lola, wake up. Lola!” he hissed. She woke with a start, mumbled something in a language he couldn’t quite catch, then stood up, smoothing her dress. Seconds later, at least three people enter the room.

“Nurse Arroyo, would you mind…” Oriente recognized Agent Demarra's voice. He heard Lola slip quietly out of the room, then a new voice.

“Good morning, Mr Oriente,” it said. “My name is David Hencock, Chief Inspector for the Central Counties DPP.”

“Okay,” Oriente said.

“I have in my hand a warrant from the High Court to use all measures provided for under the Unregulated Personalities Act to establish your identity forthwith. Do you understand me?”

“What measures?”

“The charter allows a range of applications, from the use of simple medications that inhibit your ability to conceal information…”

“A truth serum?” cut in Oriente.

“If you like. That’s what they used to call it...”

“To?”

Hencock paused, as though scanning the document in his hand.

“To…interrogation in an off-world facility, should that be deemed necessary.”

Oriente was silent for a moment. “You mean, you’d kill me to question me?”

There was a humorless snort. “Hardly, Mister Oriente. Nobody 
dies
round here. We simply insert a chip and terminate your physical form, then transfer you to a holding facility topside. It makes scanning your memory so much more straightforward.”

“What about the eighteenth amendment? My right to remain human?”

“That only applies to natural-born humans, Mr Oriente,” said Hencock. “Given your age, I think we could argue that ...”

The hunter cut him off. “And once you’ve established who I am? What happens to me then?”

“Not much, probably. I’m sure whatever past you are so reluctant to disclose to us is fairly innocuous, especially given the time-lines involved. You must have blown through plenty of statues of limitations in close to 600 years. And receiving unlicensed regenerations isn't such a serious offense these days. Once we know who you are, you’ll be registered and allowed to move on to any one of the basic entry level worlds airside. Maybe receive some brief custodial sentence. From there you can do as you please.”

“And I can’t just go back to the woods?”

“I’m afraid not, Mr Oriente. The planetary recovery commission has ruled that Earth is still classified as fragile. Access is strictly controlled and will be for a while yet. Of course, indigenous peoples can live here because there are still relatively few of them and they don’t live long. But you, it appears, have been living here for a substantially longer period than that, and against all regulations.”

Oriente sucked his teeth. “Okay then.” He was surprised at the inspector’s lack of interest in his history, given the amount of excitement it seemed to have caused in Agent Demarra. Maybe he was just a bored bureaucrat, dreaming of life on the other side. Or perhaps he was concealing his real intent.

“You’ll cooperate with us?” Hencock sounded surprised, perhaps a little disappointed not to be able to enforce the law to the utmost of his authority.

“Not just with you, Inspector. Listen, this is the way I want to do it. I’ll tell you whatever you want to hear. But I want some other people present too.”

“You’re hardly in a position to set out…”

“Shut up and listen for a minute.” His abrupt tone silenced the official. “I want academics present. Scholars. I want a professor of applied biomechanics, advanced evolutionary theory, I want a goddam history professor to hear this. Dignitaries too. Bring the mayor of London. Oh yeah, and one other thing. I want nurse Arroyo’s boyfriend to be there too.”

“Nurse Arroyo's boyfriend?” Demarra cut in, confused.

“You heard. He’s a doctoral student in modern evolutionary history. I’m going to give him a thesis that’ll make his name. Then maybe he’ll pull his finger out and give Lola what she wants.”

There was a puzzled silence. The hunter thought maybe he had stunned his audience, but quickly realized they were probably just communicating telepathically among themselves. He had almost forgotten what the Eternals were capable of, besides being the most beautiful creatures to have ever graced the planet.

After a couple of minutes, Hencock spoke up.

“I’m sorry, Mr Oriente, this is essentially a routine, if somewhat unusual, investigation by the DPP…”

“Oh no, Mr Hencock,” Oriente felt the need to wrest the initiative from these dull bureaucrats before he vanished forever into their inscrutable heaven. “This is not in the least routine. What I have to recount is far too important to be filed away and buried by you and your pen-pushers. We are talking 
history 
here. Possibly the most significant and poorly documented episode of history since those goddam apes clambered down from the trees and started walking upright on the plains of Africa.”

“Uh, Mr Oriente…” Hencock began, seemingly at a loss for words. Clearly he believed he was dealing with a maniac who'd spent far too much time alone in the woods. “What exactly…who do you
think
you are?”

Oriente smiled. “Ah, Mr Hencock, I could ask you the same, since you’re the one who’s been floating around in that bubble of imagination for centuries. I 
know 
what I am. If you dust off your implants, you’ll find a reference to an unidentified personage commonly referred to simply as the
Precursor
. Some of the newspapers talked about a ‘missing link’ back then. Or if you wanted to ask some of the cults out there in the woods, they might know me as the Father of the Forests. I always liked that one.”

“
The missing link?
” It was the third agent speaking. “That’s just some pseudo-scientific myth to do with Douglas Fitch…there’s a whole bunch of movies and sci-fi novels on it.”

“No myth,” said Oriente. “I was there.”

“Where?”

“I was there with Fitch at the beginning.”

“When he unlocked the first uploads?”

“Doug Fitch may have unlocked the 
concept 
of uploads,” Oriente said. “But he could never get them to work for shit. His brain wasn’t nearly advanced enough to do that. No one's was at that time. It was me who made the breakthrough. Without me, gentlemen, you’d all be crumbled, twenty-first century worm shit. Now, get me that panel and you won’t have to pump me full of drugs or have my mind scanned by cognizants. Instead, I’ll make you all famous.”

The hunter lay back on his pillows, certain his visitors were exchanging baffled glances and unspoken messages. It turned out he was wrong.

“Very well, Mr Oriente,” Hencock said. “As it happens, we were already monitoring you on two separate cognizants. Standard procedure, I assure you. One implanted in your left frontal lobe, the other…well, the other is Agent Sizen here. Against all my expectations, I must say, you check out. Which means we either have a genuine case of an advanced delusional personality or…something rather more interesting. Either way, I’m sure I can think of some people who'd be interested in hearing what you might have to say. And of course, if you will continue in your cooperation, we’ll meet again very shortly.”

“Thank you, Mr Hencock. Oh, and one thing more. I want my eyes before then. I like to see who I’m talking to.”

***

The procedure took less than an hour. The surgeon connected the optic nerves, swaddled Oriente’s head in fresh bandage and administered a long-lasting sedative. The next morning, Lola and another nurse arrived early, dimming the lights and drawing the blinds to remove the dressing. Lola gently swabbed away the gummy excretions that glued his eyelashes together. When she had finished, she told him to slowly open his eyes.

His vision was blurry but as it cleared, he saw her leaning in close, grinning. He found himself staring at an angel, unable to look away: her eyes were a shade of smoky blue that reminded him of evening skies in spring, her nose long and straight, slightly curled at the tip: her skin was the color of very milky coffee, and her lips were an open invitation to lean in and….

“Ha!” She let out a triumphant cry. “I knew it was worth every goddam cent. Look at that expression! Like a puppy worshipping his mama.”

There was a sullen mutter from the other nurse. Oriente glanced at her, holding a tray with a soiled bandage and scissors. The contrast with Lola could hardly be greater: she was short and dumpy, with a huge sagging bosom and lank, lifeless hair slipping out from under her white cap. Lola followed his new eyes, then turned and pointed at the ogre staring at them as though she wanted to beat them both to death with the metal tray.

“Oh, right, and this is Nurse Shareen…she’s been helping me look after you…in her own way. Changing your sheets, spitting in your food.” Lola giggled at Oriente's look of discomfort.

“Fuck you,” growled Nurse Shareen, turning to stomp from the room.

“What’s her problem?” said Oriente, still fighting the desire to reach out and stroke Lola's perfect skin.

“You mean, apart from being hideously ugly?” sniggered Lola.

“That’s not very kind.” Oriente gently reprimanded the angel before him.

She shrugged. “Not untrue though. You should have seen your face when you caught sight of her just now.”

“She’s a local, Lola. They can’t all match up to your perfect standards.”

Lola flashed a coy smile. “Ha! That’s where you’re wrong, Senor Oriente. Not about my perfection, of course, there’s no disputing that. But she’s not local. She’s from up there.”

“Really? What the hell happened? Is that some kind of a fashion statement? An anti-beauty thing?”