How to pronounce “huw” in English

Huw is holding her right hand under the cold-water tap and swearing when there's another knock at the door.

Huw turns the faucet back up and puts her fingers into the cold stream.

Huw's endured much worse and she still got enough stubborn stockpiled to last her a couple of eons.

Huw uses her good hand to wrench the faucet off, then wraps a tea towel around her throbbing, dripping fingers and walks to the door, gritting her teeth with every

"Huw, this is mandatory, not optional.

Huw hates it instantly-- especially since she suspects at the loa riding it might be descended from one of his awful parents.

Huw opens her mouth to screen, it fills with wind and her cheeks wibble and wobble while she tries to breathe past the

Huw dials her time right up and orders the whirlpool-equipped hot tub with champagne to appear in the bathroom.

Huw is prepared to accept-- for the sake of argument, mind-- that uploading leaves your soul intact, but she is never going to give one nanometer on the question of whether

Huw's never felt any affinity for them-- too cringeworthy, to like a Southern belle who comes down with the vapors at the sight of a fish knife laying where

Huw would like nothing better than to relax with the goggle-box and let her mind be lovingly swaddled in intellectual flannel, but her mind isn't having any of it.

How Huw ends up in the digital afterlife.

But Huw appreciates their point, and has spent his and then her entire life complaining instead about the

explaining how Huw finds himself-- Huw, our protagonist, finds herself, I should add.

"I said," Huw says, "I don't want any."

The words send Huw whirling back through time, back to her boyhood, and a million repetitions and variations on this phrase from his--

profundo validations of Huw's many gifts and talents and how proud her parents are of all she's achieved and suchlike.

And when Huw's non-bladder feels uncomfortably full and relaxed in the hot liquid and she lets loose a surreptitious stream, it should be magicked away, not instantly blended in

Whether or not sim-Huw is really Huw, whether or not uploading is a kind of death, whether or not posthumanity is immortal or just kidding itself, the single inviolable

The first of that voice makes Huw take an involuntary wincing step backwards, like a blast from an air horn.

This is the thing that Huw has never wanted to admit.

This isn't nearly as banal as Huw imagined it might be when she read about it on the triangular-folded cardboard standup that materialized in her hand when she reached for

There'll be hordes of Huw instances being subjected to much-less-interesting versions of this program and winking out of existence as soon as they get bored.

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And I should add, Huw is a curmudgeonly Welsh Green who runs a pottery and trusts no technology more complex than his bicycle.

Huw screams.

"Mum, I don't talk to dead people," Huw says.

Her mum's avatar grabs Huw in a vicious hug that feels like foam rubber paddings wrapped around titanium armatures.

So as you've just heard, Huw is forcibly transcended.

A palpable cone of silence descends around Huw's ears as Mum confides, "When I said it was mandatory, I was serious.

"Fuuuu--" Huw pauses.

This is what comes of having too much compute-time at one's disposal, Huw seethes.

Huw-- It's a new bike.

Huw last saw her parents at their disembodiment.

But the finality of it, zero out their bodies, had marked a break for Huw.

The spirit of adolescence descends on Huw in a red mist.

Mum's bot stops at every traffic signal, and several times, Huw tries to get passersby by to help her, with lines like, "I'm being kidnapped by the bloody

Huw

The birds and the bees resume their respective chirping and buzzing as the cone of silence collapses on Huw like an icy

she screams as Mum gently wraps a band of silvery-shimmering nanomanipulators around Huw's

That's because-- as the card explained-- the Burj has enough computation to model captive versions of Huw at extremely high speed, and to tailor the