Analog SFF, December 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Nothing."

  "No, tell me."

  "You don't know hard," he said. “Burying a parent, that's hard. Having a spouse go through cancer is hard. Getting screwed out of a promotion you deserve because of office politics is hard. Suddenly having to spend $20,000 you don't have on a new roof is hard."

  "Actually,” she said, rather stiffly, “I do know what some of those things are like. My mother died in a car crash when I was eighteen."

  Don felt his jaw dropping. He'd avoided asking her about her parents, doubtless because he felt way too in loco parentis when he was with her.

  "I never knew my dad,” she continued, “so it fell to me to look after my brother Cole. He was thirteen then. That's why I work now, you know. I've got enough graduate support to cover my current expenses, but I'm still trying to dig out from the debt I ran up taking care of Cole and me."

  "I'm, um..."

  "You're sorry. Everybody is."

  "Was ... wasn't there any life insurance?"

  "My mom couldn't afford that."

  "Oh. Um, how did you manage?"

  She lifted her shoulders. “Let's just say there's a reason I have a soft spot in my heart for food banks."

  He was embarrassed and contrite, and didn't know what to say. Still, it explained why she seemed so much more mature to him than her contemporaries did. When he had been her age, he was still living cozily with his parents, but Lenore had been out in the world for seven years, and had spent part of that time raising a teenager.

  "Where's Cole now?” he said.

  "Back in Vancouver. He moved in with his girlfriend just before I came out here to do my master's."

  "Ah."

  "I do let most things go,” she said. “You know that. But when it comes to someone taking my money—when you've had so little, you...” She shrugged slightly.

  Don looked at her. “I—I haven't been conscious of being condescending because of my age,” he said slowly, “but now that you've alerted me to it, I'll try to be more...” He trailed off; he knew that when he was under emotional stress his vocabulary tended to the highfalutin. But he couldn't think of a better term just then, and so he said it: “Vigilant."

  "Thanks,” she said, nodding slightly.

  "I don't say I'll always get it right. But I really will be trying."

  "You certainly will be,” she said, with the sort of long-suffering smile he was more used to seeing from Sarah. Don found himself smiling back at her, and he opened his arms, inviting her to stand up and step into them. She did so, and he squeezed her tight.

  * * * *

  Chapter 33

  Sarah's broken leg was still bothering her, but Gunter was a godsend, gladly bringing her fresh cups of decaf while she sat at the desk in the room that used to be Carl's. She was still working with the stack of papers Don had brought from the university—a hardcopy of the reply that had been sent to Sigma Draconis from Arecibo, and the source material it was based on: the one thousand sets of survey answers that had been chosen at random from those collected on the website. The decryption key must be somewhere buried in there, Sarah felt sure.

  It had been decades since Sarah had looked at these documents and she only vaguely remembered them. But Gunter had merely to glance at each page to be able to index it, and so when Sarah said, for instance, “I remember a pair of answers that struck me as contradictory—somebody who said ‘yes’ to the question about terminating no-longer-productive old people, and ‘yes’ to the question about not terminating people who were an economic burden,” the robot had replied, “That's in survey number 785."

  Still, she found herself often angry and sometimes even crying in frustration. She couldn't think as clearly as she used to. Perhaps that wasn't obvious in her day-to-day life of cooking and dealing with grandkids, but it was painfully clear when she tried to puzzle things out, tried to do math in her head, tried to concentrate, to think. And she grew fatigued so easily; she found herself often needing to lie down, which just prolonged the work even more.

  Of course, many people had already gone back to look at the message sent from Arecibo to see if it contained the decryption key. And, she realized, if those keen young minds hadn't found it, she likely didn't have a prayer.

  Many had suggested that the key might be one particular set of answers, from one of the thousand surveys: a unique sequence of eighty-four responses, one for each question, something like “yes,” “no,” “much greater than,” “I prefer option three,” “equal to,” “no,” “yes,” “less than,” and so on. There were over 20,000,000,000,000,000, 000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 possible combinations, Sarah knew. Those who didn't have access to the full Arecibo transmission might be trying sequences at random, but even with the world's fastest computers it would take decades to test them all. Others, of course, did have the full reply that had been sent, and had doubtless already tried using each of the thousand answer strings in turn, but had failed to unlock the message. Sarah continued to pore over the original surveys, looking for something—anything—that might stand out. But, damn it all, nothing did. She hated being old, hated what it was doing to her mind. Old professors never die, the joke went. They just lose their faculties. It was so funny, as her friends at public school used to say, that she forgot to laugh.

  She tried another sequence, but again the message “Decryption failed” flashed on her monitor. She didn't slam her hand down on the desktop in anger—she didn't have the strength for that—but Gunter must have read something in her body language anyway. “You seem frustrated,” he said.

  She swiveled her chair and looked at the Mozo, and a thought occurred to her. Gunter was an example of a nonhuman intelligence; maybe he'd have a better idea of what the aliens were looking for. “If it were you, Gunter, what would you have chosen as a decryption key?"

  "I am not disposed to secrecy,” he said.

  "No, I suppose not."

  "Have you asked Don?” the Mozo said, his tone even.

  She felt her eyebrows going up as she looked at the robot. “Why do you say that?"

  Gunter's mouth line twitched, as if he'd started to say something then thought better of it. After a moment, though, he looked away and said, “No special reason."

  Sarah thought about letting it go, but...

  But, damn it all, Don had his confidant. “You don't think I know, do you?"

  "Know what?” asked Gunter.

  "Puh-lease," she said. “I can translate messages from the stars. I can certainly pick up signals closer to home."

  You could never tell if a robot was meeting your gaze. “Ah,” said Gunter.

  "Do you know who it is?” she asked.

  The Mozo shook his blue head, then: “Do you?"

  "No. And I don't want to."

  "If I may be so bold, how do you feel about this?"

  Sarah looked out the window—which showed some sky and the red bricks of the house next door. “It would not have been my first choice, but..."

  The Mozo was silent, infinitely patient. At last, Sarah went on. “I know he has...” She vacillated between saying “wants” and “needs,” and finally settled on the latter. “And I can't become a—a gymnast. I can't turn back the clock.” She realized she'd said the part about the clock as if citing an archetypal impossibility like “I can't make the sun stand still.” But for Don, the hands—good God, when had she last seen a clock with hands?—had indeed been turned way, way back. She shook her head. “I can't keep up with him, not anymore.” She was quiet for a time, then looked at the robot. “How do you feel about this?"

  "Emotions are not my forte."

  "I suppose."

  "Still, I prefer things to be ... simple."

  Sarah nodded. “Another admirable trait you have."

  "As we have been speaking, I have been accessing the web for information on such things. I freely confess to not understanding it all, but ... are you not angry?"

  "Oh, yes. But not, so much, at Don."

&n
bsp; "I do not understand."

  "I'm angry at—at the circumstances."

  "You mean that the rollback did not work for you?"

  Sarah looked away again. After a moment, she spoke, softly but clearly. “I wasn't angry that it didn't work for me,” she said. “I was angry that it did work for Don.” She turned back to face the Mozo. “Awful, isn't it, that I should be upset that the person I love most in all the world was going to get another seventy years or more of life?” She shook her head, amazed at what she'd found herself capable of. “But, you know, it was because I knew what was bound to happen. I knew he would leave me."

  Gunter tilted his spherical head. “But he hasn't."

  "No. And, well, I don't think he's going to."

  The robot considered this, then: “I concur."

  Sarah lifted her shoulders slightly. “And that's why I have to forgive him,” she said, her voice soft and faraway. “Because, you see, I know, in my heart of hearts, if the situation had been reversed, I would have left him."

  * * * *

  "How do you feel?” asked Petra Jones, the Rejuvenex doctor, who had come by the house for Don's latest checkup. Sarah never sat in on these anymore; it was too much for her to bear.

  Don knew he suffered from a misplaced stubborn pride. When his mother had been dying, slowly, painfully, all those years ago, he'd toughed it out. When Sarah was fighting her battle with cancer, he'd kept his chin up, hiding his pain and fear as best he could from her and his children. He was his father's son, he knew; to ask for help was to show weakness. But he needed help now.

  "I—I don't know,” he said softly.

  He was sitting on one end of the couch; Petra, clad in an expensive-looking burnt-orange pantsuit, was at the other. “Is something wrong?” she asked, leaning forward, the beads in her dreadlocks making soft clicking sounds.

  Don tilted his head. He could just make out Sarah and Gunter talking, upstairs in the study. “I, um, I haven't really been feeling like myself,” he said.

  "In what way?” Petra said, the words lilting a bit thanks to her slight Georgia accent.

  He took a deep breath. “I've been doing ... uncharacteristic things—things I never thought I would do."

  "Like what?"

  He looked away. “I, um..."

  Petra nodded. “Your libido is high?"

  Don looked at her, said nothing.

  She nodded again. “That's common. A man's testosterone levels drop as he ages, but a rollback restores them. That can affect behavior."

  Tell me about it, thought Don. “But I don't remember it being like this the first time around. Of course, back then...” He trailed off.

  "What?"

  "I was much bigger when I really was twenty-five."

  Petra blinked. “Taller?"

  "Fatter. I probably weighed forty pounds more than I do now."

  "Ah, well, yes, that could be a factor, too, in the severity of the hormonal imbalance. But we can make some adjustments. Have you noticed anything else?"

  "Well, I'm not just feeling"—there was probably a better, more polite word, but he couldn't think of it just then—"horny. I'm feeling romantic."

  "Again, hormones,” said Petra. “It's common as the body adjusts to a rollback. Any other problems?"

  "No,” he said. It had been hard enough alluding to what had happened with Lenore; to give voice to this would—

  "No depression?” Petra said. “No suicidal thoughts?"

  He couldn't meet her eyes. “Well, I..."

  "Serotonin levels,” Petra said. “They can go out of whack, too, what with all the changes to your biochemistry that happen during a rollback."

  "It's not just chemical,” Don said. “Bad things have actually happened. I—I've been trying to get a job, for instance, but no one wants me."

  Petra lifted a hand slightly. “Just because your depression might be situational doesn't mean it shouldn't be treated. Have you ever been prescribed an antidepressant before?"

  Don shook his head.

  She got up and opened her leather bag. “All right. Let's take some blood samples; we'll see exactly where your levels of various hormones are right now. I'm sure we can fix everything up."

  * * * *

  Chapter 34

  Don was at home, lying in bed next to Sarah, when he was awoken from a dream. He and Sarah were standing on opposite sides of a vast canyon, and the gap between them kept widening, geologic forces working in real time, and—and the phone was ringing. He fumbled for the handset, and Sarah found the switch for the lamp on her nightstand.

  "Hello?” said Don.

  "Don, is ... is that you?"

  He frowned. Nobody quite recognized his voice these days. “Yes."

  "Oh, Don, it's Pam.” His sister-in-law; Bill's wife. She sounded hoarse, stressed.

  "Pam, are you okay?” Next to him, Sarah struggled to sit up, concerned.

  "It's Bill. He's—oh, God, Don, Bill is dead."

  Don felt his heart jump. “Christ..."

  "What is it?” asked Sarah. “What's wrong?"

  He turned to her, and repeated the words, his own voice full of shock now: “Bill is dead."

  Sarah brought a hand to her mouth. Don spoke into the phone. “What happened?"

  "I don't know. His heart, I guess. He—he...” Pam trailed off.

  "Are you at home? Are you okay?"

  "Yes, I'm at home. I just got back from the hospital. He was pronounced DOA."

  "What about Alex?” Bill's fifty-five-year-old son.

  "He's on his way."

  "God, Pam, I'm so sorry."

  "I don't know what I'm going to do without him,” said Pam.

  "Let me get dressed and get over there,” he said. Bill and Pam normally wintered in Florida, but hadn't yet headed south. “Alex and I, we can take care of all the details."

  "My poor Bill,” Pam said.

  "I'll be there soon,” he said.

  "Thanks, Don. Bye."

  "Bye.” He tried to put the handset on his nightstand, but it tumbled to the floor.

  Sarah reached over and touched his arm. God, he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen his brother. And then it hit him—

  Not since before. He normally only saw Bill a couple of times a year, but they did usually go to a Jays game each summer, although Don had begged off this year. This damned laying low, this foolish embarrassment about seeing people he knew, had cost him his last chance to see his brother.

  He left the bedroom, walked to the bathroom, and started getting ready to go. Sarah slowly followed him in. He was about to say she didn't have to come, that he could get Gunter to drive him. But he wanted her with him; he needed her.

  "I'm going to miss him,” Sarah said, standing next to him by the sink.

  He glanced briefly at the mirror above the basin, showing his own youthful reflection, and her aged one. “Me, too,” he said, very softly.

  * * * *

  "Sarah,” said Pam, as they stood at the door to Bill's condominium apartment, “thank you for coming.” Don's sister-in-law was a thin woman in her late seventies, short, with high cheekbones. She looked at Don and scowled. She probably recognized the distinctive Halifax features, including the large nose and high forehead, but not the specific face. “I'm sorry...?"

  "Pam, it's me. It's Don."

  "Oh, right. The rollback. I—I didn't imagine...” She stopped. “You look good."

  "Thanks. Look, how are you holding up?"

  Pam was clearly frazzled, but she said, “I'm okay."

  "Where's Alex?"

  "In the den. We're trying to find Bill's lawyer's name."

  Sarah said, “I'll go help Alex.” And she made her way further into the apartment.

  Don looked at Pam. “Poor Bill,” he said, having nothing better to offer.

  "There's so much to do,” said Pam, sounding overwhelmed. “A notice on the Star's website. Organizing the ... the funeral."

  "It'll all get taken care of,�
�� said Don. “Don't worry.” He gestured toward the living room, and led Pam further into her own home. “Do you need a drink?"

  "I've already got one going.” She lowered herself into an amorphous fluorescent-green chair with a tubular metal frame; his brother's taste in furniture had always been more avant-garde than his own. Don found another, matching chair.

  Pam's drink—amber colored, with ice—was on a table by her chair. She took a sip. “God, look at you."

  Don felt uncomfortable, and he shifted his gaze to look out the fifth-floor window, taller, more-expensive condo towers filling most of the view. “I didn't ask for it,” he said.

  "I know. I know. But my Bill—if he'd had a rollback, why..."

  He'd still be alive, Don thought. Yes, I know.

  "You were ... you were...” Pam was shaking her head back and forth. She stopped speaking with her thought uncompleted.

  "What?” asked Don.

  She looked away. The living-room walls were lined with bookcases; Pam and Bill even had bookshelves built-in above the door lintels. “Nothing."

  "No, tell me,” he said.

  She turned back to him, and the anger and betrayal were apparent on her face. “You're older than Bill,” she said.

  "By fifteen months, yes."

  "But now you're going to be around for decades!"

  He nodded. “Yes?"

  "You were the older brother,” she said, as if resenting that it had to be spelled out. “You were supposed to go first."

  * * * *

  All Saints’ Kingsway Anglican Church had been the church of Don's childhood, remembered now more for the Boy Scout meetings he'd attended there than for anything the minister had said. Don hadn't been in the building for—well, the phrase that came to his mind, no doubt because of his current surroundings, was “for God knows how long,” although he didn't in fact believe in a God who kept track of such minutiae.

  The coffin was closed, which was just as well. People had always said that Don and Bill looked a lot alike, but Don had no desire to have the comparison—and the contrast—highlighted. Indeed, since Bill had never had a weight problem, Don looked more like Bill had at twenty-five than he himself had at that age. He was the only one in the room who had known Bill back then, and—