Over time, the names had gotten garbled. Nobody could be sure what had happened between system migrations and transcription errors; the Orynally line might have had an altogether different name when it began 133 iterations ago.

The foreman fiddled with his controls. “Ready for transmigration. Please signify final consent.”

Orynally 133 raised a trembling arm and pressed his thumb to the biometric scanner.

“Processing,” the foreman said. His job could easily have been automated, but the powers-that-be felt that it was necessary to humanize the process; his robotic delivery seemed to belie that assertion. “Accepted. Prepare for transmigration.”

Wires were inserted into Orynally 133’s seventeen dermal data ports, and consciousness drained away with a sudden, cold wave, like jumping into ice water.