At least a clone is something solid, something biological. Kira draws the mental line from simulation to assets and has to step back from the glass. Reach up for his glasses, pull them just far enough from his face to blur the bright lights and smooth lines.

The heel of his hand is damp; he slides the glasses back on and looks at the faint fog around a smeared hand print. Condensation, the room within warmer than the space without, but lined with coolers. It's the little things, pricking holes in every theory, making him doubt even the simplest, most straightforward answer. How do you simulate this; why do you simulate this?

Because it makes more sense than the sun refusing to set, or the direction of a river reversing at a whim. "What's easier," he reasons aloud, trying to let the realization sink in. "Hand-picking people out of infinite realities, from different times, or having a backlog of shitheads to grow in tubes? Dump them in a fountain when you're done, hook them up to the fucking Matrix. Do whatever you want, grow three of them just in case."

It's not exactly a pep talk.