Analog SFF, January-February 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  “I might be willing...” began McGavin.

  “Actually,” said Sarah, “I see you more in the rich-uncle role. Someone has to bankroll the building of the artificial womb, the synthesizing of the DNA, and so on."

  McGavin shifted in the chair.

  “Besides, you have a full-time job,” said Don. “Hell, you've got multiple full-time jobs: president of your company, running your charitable foundation, all the public speaking you do..."

  The rich man nodded. “True. But if not me, then who?"

  Don cleared his throat. “Me."

  “You? But weren't you a—what was it?—a DJ, or something?"

  “I was a recording-engineer/producer,” Don said. “But that was my first career. It's time I started to embark on my second."

  “With all due respect,” McGavin said, “surely there should be a search committee."

  "I'm the search committee,” Sarah said. “And I've made my choice."

  “Seriously, Sarah, there should be a formal selection procedure,” McGavin said.

  “There already has been: the Dracon questionnaire. Using that, they chose me, and I choose Don. But we need your help."

  McGavin did not look happy. “I'm a businessperson,” he said, spreading his arms. “What's in it for me?"

  Don glanced at Sarah, and he saw her wrinkles contort. McGavin's comment made clear that his survey responses couldn't possibly be close to Sarah's—or to Don's. But she had an answer ready for him. “You'll reap any biotech benefits that come from this—not just from studying alien DNA, but from the designs for the womb and the incubator, the formulas for the alien foodstuffs, and so on."

  McGavin frowned. “I'm used to fully controlling those operations I'm involved with,” he said. “Will you sell me the decryption key? You can name your price..."

  But Sarah shook her head. “We've already determined that the one thing I might want your money can't buy."

  McGavin was quiet for a time, considering this, then: “You're talking about a lot of technology. I mean, sure, DNA synthesis is easy; there are commercial labs that can spit out any sequences we order up. But fabricating the artificial womb, and so forth—that may take a while."

  “That's all right,” Don said. “I need time to prepare, anyway."

  “How?” said McGavin. “How would you prepare for something like this?"

  Don shrugged. At this stage, he knew, he was just guessing. “I suppose I'll look at those models we do have: cross-fostering of chimpanzee babies into human homes, feral children, and so on. None of that is exactly comparable, but it'll give me a place to start. And..."

  “Yes?"

  “Well, I made this list years ago: twenty things I want to do before I die. One of them was visit the Dalai Lama. Not that that's likely, but I figure I should prepare...” he paused, surprised to hear himself using such an unfamiliar word “...spiritually for something like this."

  “Well, that's easy enough to arrange,” said McGavin.

  “You ... you know the Dalai Lama?"

  McGavin smiled. “You've heard that old saw about six degrees of separation? The moment you met me, your score went to two degrees for just about every famous person. We'll set it up."

  “Wow. Um, thanks. I just, you know, want to do a good job at..."

  “At raising aliens,” McGavin said, shaking his head, as if the idea were still sinking in.

  Don tried to make it sound less portentous. “Think of it as Dr. Spock meets Mr. Spock."

  McGavin looked at him blankly; he'd doubtless heard of the Vulcan, but the pediatrician's heyday had been well before his time.

  “So,” said Sarah, “will you help us?"

  McGavin didn't look happy. “I really wish you'd let me control this; no offense, but I've got a lot more experience managing major undertakings."

  “Sorry,” said Sarah. “It's got to be this way. Are you with us?"

  McGavin frowned, considering. “All right,” he said, looking at Sarah, then back at Don. “I'm in."

  * * * *

  Chapter 41

  A few days later, Don went up to the study, looking for Sarah, but she wasn't there. He continued down the corridor and peeked into the dark bedroom, and dimly made her out, lying on the bed.

  “Sarah...” he said softly. It was a tough judgment call: too quiet and she wouldn't hear him regardless of whether she was awake, and too loud and he'd awaken her if she was sleeping.

  Sometimes, though, you do get the right balance. “Hi, sweetheart,” she said. But her voice was weak, low.

  He moved quickly to the side of the bed and crouched down. “Are you okay?"

  She took a few seconds to reply, his pounding pulse counting each one off. “I'm ... I'm not sure."

  Don looked back over his shoulder. “Gunter!” he called. He could hear the Mozo's footsteps coming up the stairs with metronome precision. He turned back to Sarah. “What's wrong?"

  “I feel ... dizzy,” she said. “Weak..."

  Don swung to look at Gunter's solicitous blue face, which was now looming over him. “How is she?"

  “Her temperature is 38.1,” said Gunter, “and her pulse is 84 and somewhat erratic."

  Don took her thin hand in his. “My God...” he said. “We should get you to the hospital."

  “No,” said Sarah. “No, it's not necessary."

  “Yes, it is,” said Don.

  Her voice grew a little firmer. “What do you say, Gunter?"

  “You're not in immediate danger,” the robot said. “But you would be wise to see your physician tomorrow."

  She nodded, almost imperceptibly.

  “Is there anything I can do for you right now?” Don asked.

  “No,” said Sarah. She paused, and he was about to say something else, when she added, “But..."

  “Yes?"

  “Sit with me a bit, dear."

  “Of course.” But before he could do anything, Gunter was off like a shot. Moments later, he returned carrying the wheeled stenographer's chair Sarah used at her workstation in the study. The Mozo placed it next to the bed, and Don sat on it.

  “Thank you,” said Sarah, to the robot.

  The Mozo nodded, his mouth looking like a flat-lining EKG.

  * * * *

  In the morning, Sarah sat on the couch in the living room, writing on her datacom with a stylus, drafting her reply to the aliens; Cody McGavin had promised to arrange for it to be sent.

  So the Dracons would know her message was from their intended recipient, she would ultimately encrypt it using the same key that had decrypted the Dracons’ message to her. For now, she was using the English-like notation system she'd developed; later, she'd have a computer program translate the message into Dracon ideograms:

  !! [Sender's] [Lifespan] (less than sign)(less than sign)

  [Recipient's] [Lifespan]

  [Recipient's] [Lifespan] &

  [Sender's] [Lifespan] (approximately equal) [End]

  As she jotted down the pseudocode, a more colloquial version ran through her head: I've figured out that my lifespan is much shorter than yours. Your life goes on and on, but mine is near its end...

  She would go on to tell the Dracons that although she couldn't personally do what they'd asked, she'd found a worthy successor, and that they should look forward to receiving reports from their representatives here.

  She looked at the words and symbols she'd written so far; the datacom had converted her shaky handwriting into crisp, clean text.

  But mine is near its end...

  Almost ninety years of life, sixty years of marriage. Who could say it was too little? And yet...

  And yet.

  A thought came to her, from so many years ago, from her first date with Don, when they'd gone to see that Star Trek film—the one with the whales; he'd know which number it was. Funny how she could remember things from long ago, but had trouble with more recent stuff; she vividly recalled how the film began, with a screen proclaiming:

&nbs
p; * * * *

  The cast and crew of Star Trek wish to dedicate this film to the men and women of the spaceship Challenger whose courageous spirit shall live to the 23rd century and beyond....

  * * * *

  Sarah also remembered the other Shuttle disaster, the one in 2003, when Columbia had disintegrated on reentry.

  She'd been devastated both times, and although it was ridiculous to try to weigh one tragedy against the other, she remembered what she'd said to Don after the second one: she'd rather have been part of Columbia's crew than have been aboard Challenger, for the people aboard Columbia died at the end of their mission, on the way home—on the voyage home. They'd lived long enough to see their lifelong dream realized. They'd gone into orbit, had floated in microgravity, and had looked back down on the wonderful, chaotic, hypnotic blue vista of the Earth. But the Challenger astronauts had died within minutes of lifting off, without ever making it into space.

  If you have to die, better to die after achieving your goals rather than before. She had lived long enough to see aliens detected, to send a response, and to receive a reply, to engage in a dialogue, however brief. So this was now after. Even if there was a lot that she would have liked to have been part of yet to come, this was still after. This was after so very much.

  She lifted her stylus to continue writing, and, as she did so, a teardrop fell onto the datacom's display, magnifying the text beneath.

  How does one die in the age of miracle and wonder? Incipient strokes and heart attacks are easily detected and prevented. Cancers are simple to cure, as are Alzheimer's and pneumonia. Accidents still happen, but when you have a Mozo to look after you, those are rare.

  But, still, at some point, the body does wear out. The heart grows weak, the nervous system falters, catabolism far outpaces anabolism. It's not as dramatic as an aneurysm, not as painful as a coronary, not as protracted as a cancer. There's just a slow fade to black.

  And that's what had been happening, step by tiny step, to Sarah Halifax, until—

  “I don't feel very well,” she said one morning, her voice weak.

  Don was at her side in an instant. She'd been sitting on the couch in the living room, Gunter having carried her in a chair downstairs about an hour earlier. The robot came over almost as quickly, scanning her vital signs with his built-in sensors.

  “What is it?” Don asked.

  Sarah managed a weak smile. “It's old age,” she said. She paused and breathed in and out a few times. Don took her hand, and looked up at Gunter.

  “I will summon Dr. Bonhoff,” the robot said, his voice sounding sad. At the very end of life, house calls had come back into fashion; there was no need to tie up a hospital bed for someone who had no hope of getting better.

  Don squeezed her hand gently. “Remember what we agreed,” she said, her voice low but firm. “No heroic measures. No pointless prolonging of life."

  * * * *

  “She's not going to last the night,” said Dr. Tanya Bonhoff, after ministering to Sarah for several hours. Bonhoff was a broad-shouldered white woman of about forty, with close-cropped blond hair. Don and she had withdrawn from the bedroom, and now were standing in the study, the computer monitor blank.

  He felt his stomach clenching. Sarah had been promised another six or eight decades, but now...

  He groped for the stenographer's chair and lowered himself unsteadily onto it.

  Now, she might not have another six hours.

  “I've given her painkillers, but they won't affect her lucidity,” the doctor said.

  “Thank you."

  “I think you should phone your children,” she said gently.

  * * * *

  Don returned to the bedroom. Carl was on a business trip to San Francisco; he'd said he'd take the next possible flight, but even if he could get a red-eye, he still wouldn't be in Toronto until morning. And Emily was out-of-town as well, helping a friend close up his cottage for the winter; she was now racing back, although it would take her at least four hours to get here.

  Sarah was lying in the bed's center, her head propped up by pillows. Don sat on the edge of the bed and held her hand, his smooth skin such a stark contrast with her wrinkled, loose skin.

  “Hey,” he said, softly.

  She tilted her head slightly and let out a breath that hinted at being the same word in reply.

  They were quiet for a time, then, softly, Sarah said, “We did all right, didn't we?"

  “For sure,” he replied. “Two great kids. You've been a wonderful mother.” He squeezed her hand just a little harder; it looked so fragile, and bore bruises on its back from needles having been inserted there today. “And you've been a wonderful wife."

  She smiled a little, but probably as much as her weakened state would allow. “And you were a won—"

  He cut her off, unable to bear the words. “Sixty years,” is what came out of his mouth, but that, too, he realized, was a reference to their marriage.

  “When I'm...” Sarah paused, perhaps vacillating between saying “dead” and saying “gone,” then opting for the latter: “When I'm gone, I don't want you to be too sad."

  “I ... don't think I'll be able to help it,” he said softly.

  She nodded almost imperceptibly. “But you've got what none of the rest of us ever had.” She said it without remorse, without bitterness. “You were married for six decades, but have even more than that amount of time to get over ... get over the loss of your spouse. Until now, no one who'd been married that long ever had that luxury."

  “Decades won't be long enough,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “Centuries wouldn't be."

  “I know,” said Sarah, and she rotated her wrist so she could squeeze his hand, the dying woman comforting the living man. “But we were lucky to have so long together. Bill didn't have nearly that long with Pam."

  Don had never believed in such nonsense, but he felt his brother's presence now, one ghost already hovering in this room, perhaps ready to conduct Sarah on her journey.

  Sarah spoke again, although it was clearly an effort. “We were luckier than most."

  He considered that for a moment. Maybe she was right. Despite everything, maybe she was right. What had he thought, back on the day of their sixtieth wedding anniversary, while waiting for the kids to show up? It had been a good life—and nothing that had happened since could erase that.

  She was quiet for a time, just looking at him. At last, she shook her head slightly. “You look so much like you did when we first met, all those years ago."

  He tilted his head dismissively. “I was fat then."

  “But your...” She sought a word, found it: “Intensity. It's the same. It's all the same, and—” She winced, apparently feeling a knife-edge of pain, sharp enough to cut through the drugs Bonhoff had given her.

  “Sarah!"

  “I'm—” She stopped herself before giving voice to the lie that she was okay.

  “I know it's been difficult for you,” she said, “this last year.” She paused, as if exhausted from speaking, and Don had nothing to fill the void with, so he simply waited until she had regained enough strength to continue: “I know that ... that you couldn't possibly have wanted to be with someone so old, when you were so young."

  His stomach was as tight as a prizefighter's fist. “I'm sorry,” he said, almost in a whisper.

  Whether she'd heard him, he couldn't say. But she managed a small smile. “Think about me from time to time. I don't—” she made a sound in her throat, but he perceived it as one of sadness, not a sign of further deterioration. “I don't want the only person thinking about me 18.8 years from now to be my pen pal on Sigma Draconis II."

  “I promise,” he said. “I'll be thinking about you constantly. I'll be thinking about you forever."

  She made a weak smile again. “No one could do that,” she said, very softly, “but of all the people I know in the world, you're the one who could come the closest."

  And, with that, her ha
nd went limp in his.

  He let go of her hand and shook her ever so gently. “Sarah!"

  But there was no reply.

  * * * *

  Chapter 42

  When morning came, Don and Emily—who had arrived around midnight, and had slept in her old room while Don slept on the couch—started making the requisite phone calls to family and friends. The fifteenth or twentieth one Don made was to Cody McGavin. Ms. Hashimoto put him through at once, after he told her why he was calling.

  “Hello, Don,” McGavin said. “What's up?"

  Don said it simply, directly: “Sarah passed away last night."

  “Oh, my ... Oh, Don, I'm sorry."

  “The funeral will be in three days, here in Toronto."

  “Let me—no, damn it. I have to be in Borneo. I'm so sorry."

  “That's okay,” Don said.

  “I, um, I hate to even mention this,” McGavin said, “but, ah, you do have the decryption key, don't you?"

  “Yes,” replied Don.

  “Good, good. Maybe you should give me a copy. You know, for backup."

  “It's safe,” Don said. “Don't worry."

  “It's just that—"

  “Anyway,” said Don, “I've got to make a lot more calls, but I thought you'd want to know."

  “I do appreciate it, Don. And, again, my condolences."

  * * * *

  When the call had come from McGavin Robotics, saying it was time for his Mozo's routine-maintenance service check, Don had resisted the urge to put it off. “Fine,” he said. “What time will you be here?"

  “Whenever you like,” the male voice had said.

  “Don't you have to schedule these things weeks in advance?"

  The person at the other end of the line chuckled. “Not for Mr. McGavin's priority customers."

  The dark-blue van had shown up punctually at 11:00 A.M., just as Don had requested. A dapper little black man of about forty-five came to the door, carrying a small aluminum equipment case. “Mr. Halifax?” he said.

  “That's right."

  “My name's Albert. Sorry to be a bother. We like to tune things up periodically. You understand—better to nip problems in the bud than to let a major systems failure occur."