Hugo Awards: The Short Stories (Volume 2)

by Anthology

  "Isabel, it's not just the money."

  "Right. It's also the longevity factor."

  Peter looked surprised, but nodded. "People live longer today. Our founding fathers lived in a world in which the average lifespan was barely forty years. They couldn't fathom a world in which people routinely lived to be three times that age. But here we are today, and there are millions of people alive right now who filled out that Census back in 2030. Releasing the information too soon would be a violation of their privacy. History must be subservient to the living."

  She shook her head slowly. "You don't really believe that, Peter. I know you too well. Perhaps you think that history ought to be subservient to you, but not to the rest of us."

  "So what if I do? The argument still holds."

  She sighed. "Peter, you're forcing my hand. And I really don't think you want to do that."

  He leaned back in his chair and gave Isabel a small smile. "Oh, why not? Amuse me. What else have you got?"

  Isabel took a deep breath and considered her words carefully before she spoke. "Very well. Peter, according to your birth certificate, you've just turned 68 years old this month. And the significance of your age is not lost on me. You're in the 2030 census. It's not others you're trying to protect; it's yourself."

  #

  Time seemed to stand still for Isabel. She had not wanted to bring up her trump card, but here it was. And Peter sat there, quiet and unmoving, his face unreadable.

  Isabel counted off thirty seconds in her head before she found the courage to break the silence. "Peter?"

  "Senator," he replied.

  She nodded. "Senator Fitzgerald. Will you agree to drop the bill? Or should I--"

  Peter cut her off. "No. Go on. I want to hear what you have to say."

  "Okay. Let me start from basics, then. If Title 13 stays the same, the 2030 census data will be released in 2102. But if your law gets passed, it doesn't get released until 2105."

  "So?"

  "You're planning to run for president in 2104, aren't you?"

  He glared at her. "The media's speculations --"

  "Screw the media, Senator. I'm not about to head out your office door and go blogging on the Holosites. For the moment, this is just you and me in your office. So are you running for president in 2104?"

  "I'm running for re-election now, Isabel. In case you had forgotten, my current term as senator expires this year. And the voters of Massachusetts either support the idea of pushing the Census release ahead by three years, or they don't care. And given the demographics of the rest of the country--"

  "I know the demographics of the country. Over forty percent of the population is over sixty-five. If you bother to present the longevity argument to them, they may very well support the bill. But think for a moment. I'm not the only one who's going to be able to make this connection. It's obvious that if Title 13 is changed, your personal first Census record will stay hidden until after the election of 2104.

  "So what's in the census of 2030 that you want to hide?"

  Peter sighed. "I always said you were smarter than I was, Isabel. Why didn't you go into politics?"

  "I preferred teaching history at Harvard."

  "Yes, you did. Well, I didn't tell you my secret when we were married; what makes you think I'll tell you now?"

  "Because I wanted to give you the chance to do so before I told it to you."

  For the first time that she could recall, Isabel saw fear on Peter's face. He tried to cover it up with a sneer, but Isabel could see right through him.

  "Oh, really?" he asked. "You think you know what I'm hiding?"

  "Yes. I did some digging of my own." She reached into her briefcase and pulled out another handheld. "The United States went through a bizarre period at the turn of the millennium. We were polarized between the liberal states and the conservative states, kind of like we are today. Even the war on terror couldn't unite the country for more than a brief period of time. And our state, Massachusetts, has always been among the most radical. Lexington and Concord. The only state not to vote for Nixon. Same sex marriage from 2004 to 2044. Polygamy approved under the second Mormon governor."

  She paused. "And, thanks to MIT and Harvard, legal human cloning for a very brief window in the 2020s."

  Peter coughed. "That has nothing to do with me."

  "Not according to your birth certificate, no. But birth certificates never revealed that information. The Census, on the other hand, added a question in April of 2030, because of the legality of cloning."

  Isabel studied Peter's face; the fear was gone.

  "Isabel--" he began.

  "There's no record of your mother, Peter."

  "She died in childbirth."

  "That's what you always told me before. But that's not what I found." She paused. "You're a clone of your father, Peter. Or rather, of one of them. And I have proof."

  Peter remained quiet, so Isabel pressed on. "Before 2004, your biological father would have been what was euphemistically referred to as a confirmed bachelor. But according to records in Brookline Town Hall, your father was married to another man when you were born. Of course, in this day and age no one may care about that, especially since your fathers divorced shortly after you were born.

  "But they will care about the fact that you're a clone."

  Peter bit his lip. "I'm just as much a human being as anyone else."

  "Of course you are, Peter. I don't deny it. But there are people out there who will claim that you're not, that you lack a soul, or that you're a demon. Insufferable bigots, all of them. But unfortunately for you, there's still a stigma."

  "Are you going to reveal this?"

  "Only if you make me. The way I see it, Peter, if you pull back from your position on Title 13, you have a chance that no one will find out your secret. After all, there's a lot of Census data to go through. On the other hand, since you've been so vocal about pushing the release date to seventy-five years, your opponents might very well do some extensive digging before the election. But that's a chance you've got to take. Because if you don't back off, I'm releasing what I know to the press. And your secret will definitely be out."

  He wrung his hands. "It was never about protecting history with you at all, Isabel. You just wanted to ruin me."

  "Partly," she admitted. "I hated the way politics tore us apart. But I'd rather not ruin you if I don't have to. There is another way."

  "What?"

  "Be bold, for once in your life."

  "What are you talking about?"

  Isabel smiled. "Throughout our history, great men and women have stepped forward to stop discrimination. Rosa Parks. Martin Luther King. Margaret Marshall." She paused. "You can be one of them. Fight the good fight. Let the world know that you're a clone before the Census data is released in 2102."

  He shook his head. "I don't know. I'm not sure I have the strength for that kind of fight anymore."

  "Then you shouldn't be in the Senate anymore, should you?" She paused. "You fought like this once before. You can do it again. Hell, don't wait until the presidential election of 2104. Announce it now, during your '98 re-election campaign."

  "I'll lose my seat."

  "So what? You'll gain a place in history, a far more important place than if you became president. I know you've always been obsessed with history, Peter. That's why I married you. Return the favor to history."

  Peter sighed and pushed back away from his desk. He stood up, walked around Isabel, and stopped at his office window. He stood there quietly for a moment, then turned to face Isabel again. She could see a weary look in his eyes.

  "Well?" she asked.

  "I don't know if I can handle it," he said.

  "I'm sure you can."

  He closed the distance between them and took her hand, surprising her. "Perhaps I could," he said. "But only on one condition."

  "You're naming conditions?"

  "Yes." He paused. "Stay with me."

  "I'm sorry?" />
  "I never should have let you go."

  "Is this blackmail?"

  He sighed again. "No, no it's not. I'll do what you ask, whether or not you join me again. But you were always the stronger of the two of us. And this burden...it would be better shared."

  She looked into his eyes, and for the first time in years, saw in his soul the man she remembered. Gently, she squeezed his hand, and felt him squeeze hers back.

  "It would be," she said.

  DOWN MEMORY LANE

  Mike Resnick

  Hugo- and Nebula-winner Mike Resnick follows 2004’s “Travels with My Cats” (February 2004) and “A Princess of Earth”(December 2004) with this moving tale of love and sacrifice. Watch for Mike’s latest novels, A Gathering of Widowmakers and Lady with an Alien, which will hit the stores shortly.

  Gwendolyn sticks a finger into her cake, pulls it out, and licks it with a happy smile on her face.

  “I like birthdays!” she says, giggling with delight.

  I lean over and wipe some frosting off her chin. “Try to be a little neater,” I say. “You wouldn’t want to have to take a bath before you open your present.”

  “Present?” she repeats excitedly, her gaze falling on the box with the colorful wrapping paper and the big satin bow. “Is it time for my present now? Is it?”

  “Yes, it is,” I answer. I pick up the box and hand it to her. “Happy birthday, Gwendolyn.”

  She tears off the paper, shoves the card aside, and opens the box. An instant later she emits a happy squeal and pulls out the rag doll. “This is my very favorite day of my whole life!” she announces.

  I sigh and try to hold back my tears.

  Gwendolyn is eighty-two years old. She has been my wife for the last sixty of them.

  I don’t know where I was when Kennedy was shot. I don’t know what I was doing when the World Trade Center collapsed under the onslaught of two jetliners. But I remember every single detail, every minute, every second, of the day we got the bad news.

  “It may not be Alzheimer’s,” said Dr. Castleman. “Alzheimer’s is becoming a catchword for a variety of senile dementias. Eventually we’ll find out exactly which dementia it is, but there’s no question that Gwendolyn is suffering from one of them.”

  It wasn’t a surprise—after all, we knew something was wrong; that’s why she was being examined—but it was still a shock.

  “Is there any chance of curing it?” I asked, trying to keep my composure.

  He shook his head sadly. “Right now we’re barely able to slow it down.”

  “How long have I got?” said Gwendolyn, her face grim, her jaw set.

  “Physically you’re in fine shape,” said Castleman. “You could live another ten to twenty years.”

  “How long before I don’t know who anyone is?” she persisted.

  He shrugged helplessly. “It proceeds at different rates with different people. At first you won’t notice any diminution, but before long it will become noticeable, perhaps not to you, but to those around you. And it doesn’t progress in a straight line. One day you’ll find you’ve lost the ability to read, and then, perhaps two months later, you’ll see a newspaper headline, or perhaps a menu in a restaurant, and you’ll read it as easily as you do today. Paul here will be elated and think you’re regaining your capacity, and he’ll call me and tell me about it, but it won’t last. In another day, another hour, another week, the ability will be gone again.”

  “Will I know what’s happening to me?”

  “That’s almost the only good part of it,” replied Castleman. “You know now what lies ahead of you, but as it progresses you will be less and less aware of any loss of your cognitive abilities. You’ll be understandably bitter at the start, and we’ll put you on anti-depressants, but the day will come when you no longer need them because you no longer remember that you ever had a greater mental capacity than you possess at that moment.”

  She turned to me. “I’m sorry, Paul.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I said.

  “I’m sorry that you’ll have to watch this happen to me.”

  “There must be something we can do, some way we can fight it. . . .” I muttered.

  “I’m afraid there isn’t,” said Castleman. “They say there are stages you go through when you know you’re going to die: disbelief, then anger, then self-pity, and finally acceptance. No one’s ever come up with a similar list for the dementias, but in the end what you’re going to have to do is accept it and learn to live with it.”

  “How long before I have to go to . . . to wherever I have to go when Paul can’t care for me alone?”

  Castleman took a deep breath, let it out, and pursed his lips. “It varies. It could be five or six months, it could be two years, it could be longer. A lot depends on you.”

  “On me?” said Gwendolyn.

  “As you become more childlike, you will become more curious about things that you no longer know or recognize. Paul tells me you’ve always had a probing mind. Will you be content to sit in front of the television while he’s sleeping or otherwise occupied, or will you feel a need to walk outside and then forget how to get back home? Will you be curious about all the buttons and switches on the kitchen appliances? Two-year-olds can’t open doors or reach kitchen counters, but you will be able to. So, as I say, it depends on you, and that is something no one can predict.” He paused. “And there may be rages.”

  “Rages?” I repeated.

  “In more than half the cases,” he replied. “She won’t know why she’s so enraged. You will, of course—but you won’t be able to do anything about it. If it happens, we have medications that will help.”

  I was so depressed I was thinking of suicide pacts, but Gwendolyn turned to me and said, “Well, Paul, it looks like we have a lot of living to cram into the next few months. I’ve always wanted to take a Caribbean cruise. We’ll stop at the travel agency on the way home.”

  That was her reaction to the most horrific news a human being can receive.

  I thanked God that I’d had sixty years with her, and I cursed Him for taking away everything that made her the woman I loved before we’d said and done all the things we had wanted to say and do.

  She’d been beautiful once. She still was. Physical beauty fades, but inner beauty never does. For sixty years we had lived together, loved together, worked together, played together. We got to where we could finish each other’s sentences, where we knew each other’s tastes better than we knew our own. We had fights—who doesn’t?—but we never once went to bed mad at each other.

  We raised three children, two sons and a daughter. One son was killed in Vietnam; the other son and the daughter kept in touch as best they could, but they had their own lives to lead, and they lived many states away.

  Gradually our outside social contacts became fewer and fewer; we were all each other needed. And now I was going to watch the only thing I’d ever truly loved become a little less each day, until there was nothing left but an empty shell.

  The cruise went well. We even took the train all the way to the rum factory at the center of Jamaica, and we spent a few days in Miami before flying home. She seemed so normal, so absolutely herself, that I began thinking that maybe Dr. Castleman’s diagnosis had been mistaken.

  But then it began. There was no single incident that couldn’t have occurred fifty years ago, nothing that you couldn’t find a reasonable excuse for—but things kept happening. One afternoon she put a roast in the oven, and at dinnertime we found that she’d forgotten to turn the oven on. Two days later we were watching The Maltese Falcon for the umpteenth time, and suddenly she couldn’t remember who killed Humphrey Bogart’s partner. She “discovered” Raymond Chandler, an author she’d loved for years. There were no rages, but there was everything else Dr. Castleman had predicted.

  I began counting her pills. She was on five different medications, three of them twice a day. She never skipped them all, but somehow the numbers never came out
quite right.

  I’d mention a person, a place, an incident, something we’d shared together, and one time out of three she couldn’t recall it—and she’d get annoyed when I’d explain that she had forgotten it. In a month it became two out of three times. Then she lost interest in reading. She blamed it on her glasses, but when I took her to get a new prescription, the optometrist tested her and told us that her vision hadn’t changed since her last visit two years earlier.

  She kept fighting it, trying to stimulate her brain with crossword puzzles, math problems, anything that would cause her to think. But each month the puzzles and problems got a little simpler, and each month she solved a few less than she had the month before. She still loved music, and she still loved leaving seeds out for the birds and watching them come by to feed—but she could no longer hum along with the melodies or identify the birds.

  She had never allowed me to keep a gun in the house. It was better, she said, to let thieves steal everything than to get killed in a shootout—they were just possessions; we were all that counted—and I honored her wishes for sixty years. But now I went out and bought a small handgun and a box of bullets, and kept them locked in my desk against the day that she was so far gone she no longer knew who I was. I told myself that when that day occurred, I would put a bullet into her head and another into my own . . . but I knew that I couldn’t. Myself, yes; the woman who’d been my life, never.

  I met her in college. She was an honor student. I was a not-very-successful jock—third-string defensive end in football, back-up power forward in basketball, big, strong, and dumb—but she saw something in me. I’d noticed her around the campus—she was too good-looking not to notice—but she hung out with the brains, and our paths almost never crossed. The only reason I asked her out the first time was because one of my frat brothers bet me ten dollars she wouldn’t give me the time of day. But for some reason I’ll never know she said yes, and for the next sixty years I was never willingly out of her presence. When we had money we spent it, and when we didn’t have money we were every bit as happy; we just didn’t live as well or travel as much. We raised our kids, sent them out into the world, watched one die and two move away to begin their own lives, and wound up the way we’d started—just the two of us.