Jamie knew all that by now. Knew that the technology of reading memories turned out to be much, much simpler than implanting them—it had been discovered that the implantation had to be made while the brain was actually growing. And government restrictions on human cloning had made tests next to impossible, and that the team that had started his project had split up years ago, some to higher-paying jobs, some retired, others to pet projects of their own. How his father had long ago used up whatever pull he'd had at the University trying to keep everything together. And how he long ago had acquired or purchased patents and copyrights for the whole scheme, except for Jamie's program, which was still owned jointly by the University and the family.
Tears reappeared on Mom's lower face, dripped off her chin. "There's potentially a lot of money at stake, you know. People want to raise perfect children. Keep them away from bad influences, make sure that they're raised free from violence."
"So they want to control the kid's entire environment," Jamie said.
"Yes. And make it safe. And wholesome. And—"
"Just like normal family life," Jamie finished. "No diapers, no vomit, no messes. No having to interact with the kid when the parents are tired. And then you just download the kid into an adult body, give him a diploma, and kick him out of the house. And call yourself a perfect parent."
"And there are religious people . . . " Mom licked her lips. "Your Dad's been talking to them. They want to raise children in environments that reflect their beliefs completely. Places where there is no temptation, no sin. No science or ideas that contradict their own . . . "
"But Dad isn't religious," Jamie said.
"These people have money. Lots of money."
Mom reached out, took his hand. Jamie thought about all the code that enabled her to do it, that enabled them both to feel the pressure of unreal flesh on unreal flesh.
"I'll do what you wish, of course," she said. "I don't have that desire for immortality, the way your father does." She shook her head. "But I don't know what your father will do once his time comes."
The world was a disk a hundred meters across, covered with junk: old Roman ruins, gargoyles fallen from a castle wall, a broken chariot, a shattered bell. Outside the rim of the world, the sky was black, utterly black, without a ripple or a star.
Standing in the center of the world was a kind of metal tree with two forked, jagged arms.
"Hi, Digit," Becca said.
A dull fitful light gleamed on the metal tree, as if it were reflecting a bloody sunset.
"Hi, sis," it said.
"Well," Becca said. "We're alone now."
"I caught the notice of Dad's funeral. I hope nobody missed me."
"I missed you, Digit." Becca sighed. "Believe it or not."
"I'm sorry."
Becca restlessly kicked a piece of junk, a hubcap from an old, miniature car. It clanged as it found new lodgement in the rubble. "Can you appear as a person?" she asked. "It would make it easier to talk to you."
"I've finished with all that," Jamie said. "I'd have to resurrect too much dead programming. I've cut the world down to next to nothing; I've got rid of my body, my heartbeat, the sense of touch."
"All the human parts," Becca said sadly.
The dull red light oozed over the metal tree like a drop of blood. "Everything except sleep and dreams. It turns out that sleep and dreams have too much to do with the way people process memory. I can't get rid of them, not without cutting out too much of my mind." The tree gave a strange, disembodied laugh. "I dreamed about you, the other day. And about Cicero. We were talking Latin."
"I've forgotten all the Latin I ever knew." Becca tossed her hair, forced a laugh. "So what do you do nowadays?"
"Mostly I'm a conduit for data. The University has been using me as a research spider, which I don't mind doing, because it passes the time. Except that I take up a lot more memory than any real search spider, and don't do that much better a job. And the information I find doesn't have much to do with me—it's all about the real world. The world I can't touch." The metal tree bled color.
"Mostly," he said, "I've just been waiting for Dad to die. And now it's happened."
There was a moment of silence before Becca spoke. "You know that Dad had himself scanned before he went."
"Oh yeah. I knew."
"He set up some kind of weird foundation that I'm not part of, with his patents and programs and so on, and his money and some other people's."
"He'd better not turn up here."
Becca shook her head. "He won't. Not without your permission, anyway. Because I'm in charge here. You—your program—it's not a part of the foundation. Dad couldn't get it all, because the University has an interest, and so does the family." There was a moment of silence. "And I'm the family now."
"So you . . . inherited me," Jamie said. Cold scorn dripped from his words.
"That's right," Becca said. She squatted down amid the rubble, rested her forearms on her knees.
"What do you want me to do, Digit? What can I do to make it better for you?"
"No one ever asked me that," Jamie said.
There was another long silence.
"Shut it off," Jamie said. "Close the file. Erase it."
Becca swallowed hard. Tears shimmered in her eyes. "Are you sure?" she asked.
"Yes. I'm sure."
"And if they ever perfect the clone thing? If we could make you . . . " She took a breath. "A person?"
"No. It's too late. It's . . . not something I can want anymore."
Becca stood. Ran a hand through her hair. "I wish you could meet my daughter," she said. "Her name is Christy. She's a real beauty."
"You can bring her," Jamie said.
Becca shook her head. "This place would scare her. She's only three. I'd only bring her if we could have . . . "
"The old environment," Jamie finished. "Pandaland. Mister Jeepers. Whirlikin Country."
Becca forced a smile. "Those were happy days," she said. "They really were. I was jealous of you, I know, but when I look back at that time . . . " She wiped tears with the back of her hand. "It was the best."
"Virtual environments are nice places to visit, I guess," Jamie said. "But you don't want to live in one. Not forever." Becca looked down at her feet, planted amid rubble.
"Well," she said. "If you're sure about what you want."
"I am."
She looked up at the metal form, raised a hand. "Goodbye, Jamie," she said.
"Goodbye," he said.
She faded from the world.
And in time, the world and the tree faded, too.
Hand in hand, Daddy and Jamie walked to Whirlikin Country. Jamie had never seen the Whirlikins before, and he laughed and laughed as the Whirlikins spun beneath their orange sky.
The sound of a bell rang over the green hills. "Time for dinner, Jamie," Daddy said.
Jamie waved goodbye to the Whirlikins, and he and Daddy walked briskly over the fresh green grass toward home.
"Are you happy, Jamie?" Daddy asked.
"Yes, Daddy!" Jamie nodded. "I only wish Momma and Becky could be here with us."
"They'll be here soon."
When, he thought, they can get the simulations working properly.
Because this time, he thought, there would be no mistakes. The foundation he'd set up before he died had finally purchased the University's interest in Jamie's program—they funded some scholarships, that was all it finally took. There was no one in the Computer Department who had an interest anymore.
Jamie had been loaded from an old backup—there was no point in using the corrupt file that Jamie had become, the one that had turned itself into a tree, for heaven's sake.
The old world was up and running, with a few improvements. The foundation had bought their own computer—an old one, so it wasn't too expensive—that would run the environment full time. Some other children might be scanned, to give Jamie some playmates and peer socialization.
This time it
would work, Daddy thought. Because this time, Daddy was a program too, and he was going to be here every minute, making sure that the environment was correct and that everything went exactly according to plan. That he and Jamie and everyone else had a normal family life, perfect and shining and safe.
And if the clone program ever worked out, they would come into the real world again. And if downloading into clones was never perfected, then they would stay here.
There was nothing wrong with the virtual environment. It was a good place.
Just like normal family life. Only forever.
And when this worked out, the foundation's backers—fine people, even if they did have some strange religious ideas—would have their own environments up and running. With churches, angels, and perhaps even the presence of God . . .
"Look!" Daddy said, pointing. "It's Mister Jeepers!"
Mister Jeepers flew off the rooftop and spun happy spirals in the air as he swooped toward Jamie. Jamie dropped Daddy's hand and ran laughing to greet his friend.
"Jamie's home!" Mister Jeepers cried. "Jamie's home at last!"
Afterword: Daddy's World
The story was originally called "The World and the Tree," but the publisher thought the title was insufficiently direct.
The story was solicited by Constance Ash, a friend for many years, for her anthology Not of Woman Born, dedicated to exploring the future of reproductive technologies.
I've always been skeptical of the claims of those who promote "uploading," the notion that the human consciousness will be much better off once it's reduced to digits and placed in a virtual environment where reality is more plastic and subject to experiment than on our own terraqueous globe. Such locations strike me as fine places for a vacation, but dreadful as a permanent residence. Ultimately we all inhabit physical reality—even virtual people, insofar as they would consist of a string of zeroes and ones stuck somewhere in a box—and physical reality provides the ultimate check on our tendency to megalomania. Ids in a box—how much fun would that be?
Living in virtual would be even less fun for a minor or dependent child. (This is a theme I returned to later, in "Incarnation Day.") A child would not be able to choose his environment, would theoretically be under adult supervision throughout his entire existence, would have to live with whatever system of punishments and rewards are established by adult authority, and would have no physical escape whatever. The child in effect would be living the parent's fantasy of childhood, rather than his own.
Of these conditions are nightmares born.
The Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America were kind enough to vote this story a Nebula Award.
Lethe
Davout had himself disassembled for the return journey. He had already been torn in half, he felt: the remainder, the dumb beast still alive, did not matter. The Captain had ruled, and Katrin would not be brought back. Davout did not want to spend the years between the stars in pain, confronting the gaping absence in his quarters, surrounded by the quiet sympathy of the crew.
Besides, he was no longer needed. The terraforming team had done its work, and then, but for Davout, had died.
Davout lay down on a bed of nano and let the little machines take him apart piece by piece, turn his body, his mind, and his unquenchable longing into long strings of numbers. The nanomachines crawled into his brain first, mapping, recording, and then shut down his mind piece by piece, so that he would feel no discomfort during what followed, or suffer a memory of his own body being taken apart.
Davout hoped that the nanos would shut down the pain before his consciousness failed, so that he could remember what it was like to live without the anguish that was now a part of his life, but it didn't work out that way. When his consciousness ebbed, he was aware, even to the last fading of the light, of the knife-blade of loss still buried in his heart.
The pain was there when Davout awoke, a wailing voice that cried, a pure contralto keen of agony, in his first dawning awareness. He found himself in an early-Victorian bedroom, blue-striped wallpaper, silhouettes in oval frames, silk flowers in vases. Crisp sheets, light streaming in the window. A stranger—shoulder-length hair, black frock coat, cravat carelessly tied—looked at him from a gothic-revival armchair. The man held a pipe in the right hand and tamped down tobacco with the prehensile big toe of his left foot.
"I'm not on the Beagle," Davout said.
The man gave a grave nod. His left hand formed the mudra for
"And this isn't a virtual?"
"Then something has gone wrong."
"I am Dr. Li," he said.
"What happens if they find they've made a mistake?"
"May I take my hands out from under the covers?" he asked.
"Yes."
Davout did so. His hands, he observed, were brown and leathery, hands suitable for the hot, dry world of Sarpedon. They had not, then, changed his body for one more suited to Earth, but given him something familiar.
If, he realized, they were on Earth.
His right fingers made the mudra
Davout passed a hand over his forehead, discovered that the forehead, hand, and the gesture itself were perfectly familiar.
Strange, but the gesture convinced him that he was, in a vital way, still himself. Still Davout.
Still alive, he thought. Alas.
"Tell me what happened," he said. "Tell me why I'm here."
Li signed
Davout found his shock curiously veiled. The loss of the other lives—friends, most of them—stood muted by the precedent of his own earlier, overriding grief. It is as if the two losses were weighed in a balance, and the Beagle found wanting.
Li, Davout observed, was waiting for Davout to absorb this information before continuing.
"The accident happened seven light-years out," Li said. "Beagle began to yaw wildly, and both automatic systems and the crew failed to correct the maneuver. Beagle's automatic systems concluded that the ship was unlikely to survive the increasing oscillations, and began to use its communications lasers to download personality data to collectors in Earth orbit. As the only crew member to elect disassembly during the return journey, you were first in the queue. The others, we presume, ran to nano disassembly stations, but communication was lost with the Beagle before we retrieved any of their data."
"Did Katrin's come through?"
Li stirred uneasily in his chair.
Davout closed his eyes. He had lost her again. Over the bubble of hopelessness in his throat he asked, "How long has it been since my data arrived?"
"A little over eight days."
They had waited eight days, then, for Beagle—for the Beagle of seven years ago—to correct its problem and reestablish communication. If Beagle had resumed contact, the mass of data that was Davout might have been erased as redundant.
"The government has announced the loss," Li said. "Though there is a remote chance that the
Beagle may come flying in or through the system in eleven years as scheduled, we have detected no more transmissions, and we've been unable to observe any blueshifted deceleration torch aimed at our system. The government decided that it would be unfair to keep sibs and survivors in the dark any longer."
He envisioned the last moments of the Beagle, the crew being flung back and forth as the ship slammed through increasing pendulum swings, the desperate attempts, fighting wildly fluctuating gravity and inertia, to reach the emergency nanobeds . . . no panic, Davout thought, Captain Moshweshwe had trained his people too well for that. Just desperation, and determination, and, as the oscillations grew worse, an increasing sense of futility, and impending death.
No one expected to die anymore. It was always a shock when it happened near you. Or to you.
"The cause of the Beagle's problem remains unknown," Li said, the voice far away. "The Bureau is working with simulators to try to discover what happened."
Davout leaned back against his pillow. Pain throbbed in his veins, pain and loss, knowledge that his past, his joy, was irrecoverable. "The whole voyage," he said, "was a catastrophe."
Li signed. "You terraformed and explored two worlds," he said. "Downloads are already living on these worlds, hundreds of thousands now, millions later. There would have been a third world added to our commonwealth if your mission had not been cut short due to the, ah, first accident . . . "
Davout hesitated, but the words were insistent; he gave them tongue. "Have Katrin's sibs sent messages?" he asked.
The Green Leopard Plague and Other Stories Page 4
