I stand there, holding Bot-Nathan's head by a fistful of hair, feeling oddly like a child with a broken toy. I watch the body for signs of life, but it doesn't move.

For a few seconds, some handicapped processing power remains active in the head. Brown eyes-manufactured to look so much like Rutherford's and Yvonne's-glare at me. The half-mouth tries to speak to me.

I drop the head. It whines on the ground with angry, meaningless syllables. Then even this fades away. Still, only ...