by Mike Resnick
I kept wondering if she could somehow be Deedee reincarnated, but I knew deep in my gut that it wasn’t possible: if she was Deedee—my Deedee—she’d have been put here for me, and this one was marrying a young man named Ron. Besides, she had a past, she had photos of herself as a little girl, friends who had known her for years, and Deedee had only been dead for seven years. And while I didn’t understand what was happening, I knew there couldn’t have been two of her co-existing at the same time. (No, I never asked myself why; I just knew it couldn’t be.)
Sometimes, as a bit of an experiment, I’d order a wine, or mention a play or book or movie that I knew Deedee hadn’t liked, and invariably Deirdre would wrinkle her nose and express her lack of enthusiasm for the very same thing.
It was uncanny. And in a way it was frightening, because I couldn’t understand why it was happening. This wasn’t my Deedee. Mine had lived her life with me, and that life was over. I was a 76-year-old man with half a dozen ailments who was just beating time on his way to the grave. I was never going to impose myself on Deirdre, and she was never going to look upon me as anything but an eccentric acquaintance…so why had I met her?
From time to time I’d had this romantic fancy that when two people loved each other and suited each other the way Deedee and I did, they’d keep coming back over and over again. Once they’d be Adam and Eve, once they’d be Lancelot and Guenevere, once they’d be Bogart and Bacall. But they’d be together. They wouldn’t be an old man and a young woman who could never connect. I had half a century’s worth of experiences we could never share, I was sure the thought of my touching her would make her skin crawl, and I was long past the point where I could do anything but touch her. So whether she was my Deedee reborn, or just a Deedee, why were the two of us here at this time and in this place?
I didn’t know.
But a few days later I learned that I’d better find out pretty damned quick. Something finally showed up in all the tests I’d been taking at the hospital. They put me on half a dozen new medications, gave me some powerful pain pills for when I needed them, and told me not to make any long-term plans.
Hell, I wasn’t even that unhappy about it. At least I’d be with my Deedee again—the real Deedee, not the charming substitute.
The next night was our regular dinner date. I’d decided not to tell her the news; there was no sense distressing her.
It turned out that she was distressed enough as it was. Ron had given her an ultimatum: set a date or break it off. (Things had changed a lot since my day. Most of my contemporaries would have killed to have a gorgeous girlfriend who had no problem sleeping with them but got nervous at the thought of marriage.)
“So what are you going to do?” I asked sympathetically.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “I’m fond of him, I really am. But I just…I don’t know.”
“Let him go,” I said.
She stared at me questioningly.
“If you’re not certain after all this time,” I said, “kiss him off.”
She sighed deeply. “He’s everything I should want in a husband, Walter. He’s thoughtful and considerate, we share a lot of interests, and he’s got a fine future as an architect.” She smiled ruefully. “I even like his mother.”
“But?” I prompted her.
“But I don’t think I love him.” She stared into my eyes. “I always thought I’d know right away. At least that’s the myth I was brought up on as a little girl, and it was reinforced by all the romance novels I read and movies I saw. How was it for you and your Deedee? Did you ever have any doubts?”
“Never a one,” I said. “Not from the first moment to the last.”
“I’m 31, Walter,” she said unhappily. “If I haven’t met the right guy yet, what are the odds he’s going to show up before I’m 40, or 60? What if I want to have a baby? Do I have it with a man I don’t love, or with a guy I love who’s living six states away before it’s even born?” She sighed unhappily. “I have two good friends who married the men of their dreams. They’re both divorced. My closest friend married a nice guy she wasn’t sure she loved. She’s been happily married for ten years, and keeps telling me I’m crazy if I let Ron get away.” She stared across the table at me, a tortured expression on her face. “I’d give everything I have to be as sure of a man—any man—as you were of your Deedee.”
And that was when I knew why I’d met her, and why the medics had given me a few more months atop Planet Earth before I spent the rest of eternity beneath it.
We finished the meal, and for the first time ever, I walked her home. She lived in one of those high-rise apartment buildings, kind of a miniature city in itself. It wasn’t fancy enough to have a doorman, but she assured me the security system was state of the art. She kissed me on the cheek while a couple of neighbors who were coming out looked at her as if she was crazy. I waited until she was safely in the elevator, then left and returned home.
When I woke up the next morning I decided it was time to get busy. At least I was going to be in familiar locations where I felt comfortable. I got dressed and went out to the track, spent a few hours in the grandstand near the furlong pole where I always got the best view of the races, and didn’t lay a single bet, just hung around. Then, after dinner, I started making the rounds of all my favorite bookstores. I spent the next two afternoons at the zoo and the natural history museum, where I’d spent so many happy afternoons with Deedee, and the one after that at the ballpark in the left field bleachers. I had to take a couple of pain pills along the way, but I didn’t let it slow me down. I continued my circuit of bookstores and coffee shops in the evenings.
On the sixth night I decided I was getting tired of Italian food—hell, I was getting tired, period—and I went to the Olympus, another restaurant I’ve been frequenting for years. It doesn’t look like much, no Greek statues, not even any belly dancers or bazouki players, but it serves the best pastitsio and dolmades in town.
And that’s where I saw him.
His face didn’t jump right out at me the way Deirdre’s did, but then I hadn’t really looked at it in a long time. He was alone. I waited until he got up to go to the men’s room, and then followed him in.
“Nice night,” I said, when we were washing our hands.
“If you say so,” he answered unenthusiastically.
“The air is clear, the moon is out, there’s a lovely breeze, and the possibilities are endless,” I said. “What could be better?”
“Look, fella,” he said irritably, “I just broke up with my girl and I’m in no mood for talk, okay?”
“I need to ask you a couple of questions, Wally.”
“How’d you know my name?” he demanded.
I shrugged. “You look like a Wally.”
He cast a quick look at the door. “What the hell’s going on? You try anything funny, and I’ll—”
“Not to worry,” I said. “I’m a just used-up old man trying to do one last good deed on the way to the grave.” I pulled an ancient photo out of my wallet and held it up. “Look at all familiar?”
He frowned. “I don’t remember posing for that. Did you take it?”
“A friend did. Who’s your favorite actor?”
“Humphrey Bogart. Why?” Of course. Bogie had been my favorite since I was a kid.
“Just curious. Last question: what do you think of Agatha Christie?”
“Why?”
“I’m curious.”
He stared at me for a moment, then shrugged. “I can’t stand her. Murders take place in back alleys, not vicarages.” It figured. I’d always hated mystery novels where the murder was committed primarily to provide the detective with a corpse.
“Good answer, Wally.”
“What are you smiling about?” he asked suspiciously.
“I’m happy.”
“I’m glad one of us is.”
“Tell you what,” I said. “Maybe I can cheer you up, too. You know a restaurant called Vincenzo’s—a l
ittle Italian place about three blocks east of here?”
“Yeah, I stop in there every now and then. Why?”
“I want you to be my guest for dinner tomorrow night.”
“Still why?”
“I’m an old man with nothing to spend my money on,” I said. “Why don’t you humor me?”
He considered it, then shrugged. “What the hell. I don’t have anyone to eat with anyway.”
“Temporarily,” I replied.
“What are you talking about?”
“Just show up,” I said. Then, as I walked to the door, I turned back to him and smiled. “Have I got a girl for you!”
INTRODUCTION TO “ARTICLE OF FAITH”
James Patrick Kelly
It was Voltaire who famously said, “If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him.” Let me offer a codicil, “If Christianity did not exist, it would be necessary for science fiction writers to invent it.” This is in part because like most religions, the many varieties of Christianity are filled with ideas about human nature. Alas, some of those ideas arise from mistaken assumptions or disproved theories. But because Christianity purports to explain the ultimate reality, flaws in any part of its worldview threaten the legitimacy of all of its claims. It is one thing for a country to change its laws, quite another for God and His spokespeople to admit that He has been wrong. Of course, it is one of the missions of science fiction writers to test new ideas and recent discoveries against received knowledge and perhaps, in the process, create a new legitimacy. But to get the job done right you don’t go up against the Town Council, or the State House, or even the Supreme Court. You go after the Big Guy Himself if you can, and if you can’t, you call His minions to account.
“Article of Faith,” first published in 2008 and nominated for the short story Hugo in 2009, is something of a throwback story, but then my friend Mike is something of a throwback himself. He has read the history of science fiction as closely as anyone I know, and knows how to ring changes on stories we have come to recognize as central to the genre. This one is basically a philosophical dialogue hung on two well-defined characters and a minimalist plot. Mike’s technique is to use a tight focus as a rhetorical device keeps the reader’s attention fixed on the issue at hand. We don’t know whether there are more robots like Jackson or if there is a robot liberation movement. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that this one robot has a lesson to teach, and that Reverend Morris must learn it or lose his faith.
My robots are the antithesis of Isaac Asimov’s. They should obey something similar to Isaac’s classic Three Laws of Robotics, but they just don’t—and I don’t think I’d find them interesting if they did. I’d wanted to write a story about this theme for a couple of years, but I kept putting it off because I couldn’t find an end that I thought was moving enough. Then one day I envisioned Jackson scratching the line that you’ll read onto the stone floor with a metal forefinger, and I was ready to tell the story. It was a 2009 Hugo nominee for Best Short Story.
ARTICLE OF FAITH
THE FIRST TIME I SAW him, he was sweeping the floor at the back of the darkened church, standing in a beam of light that came streaming down from the window above him, glistening off his metal skin.
“Good morning, sir,” he said as I was heading across vestibule to my office.
“Good morning,” I replied. “You’re new here, aren’t you? I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”
“I was just delivered this morning, sir,” he said.
“What was wrong with Herbie?”
“I cannot say, sir.”
“Oh, well,” I said. “Have you got a name?”
“Jackson, sir.”
“Just Jackson?”
“Jackson 389V22M7, if you prefer, sir.”
“Jackson will do,” I said. “When you’re through out here, I’d like you to clean my office.”
“I already did, sir.”
“Very good, Jackson,” I said. “I can tell we’re going to get along splendidly.”
“I hope so, sir,” said Jackson.
I went to my office, and since there were no parishioners around I took off my coat and loosened my tie. Then I sat down on my old-fashioned swivel chair, pulled out a pad of yellow paper and a pen, and began working on my next sermon. I was still at it an hour later when Jackson knocked on the door.
“Come in,” I said.
He entered, carrying a tray with a pot of tea and a cup and saucer. “I was told that that you liked your mid-morning tea, sir,” he said, “but they neglected to tell me if you wanted milk, sugar, or lemon with it.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you, Jackson,” I said. “Thank you.”
“You are quite welcome, sir,” he said.
“They certainly programmed good manners into you,” I said.
“Thank you, sir.” He paused. “About the milk, sugar or lemon…?”
“I don’t need them.”
“What time will you want your lunch, sir?” asked Jackson.
“Noon,” I said. “And I pray that you can cook better than Herbie could.”
“I have been given a list of your favorite meals, sir,” said Jackson. “Which would—?”
“Surprise me,” I interrupted him.
“Are you sure, sir?”
“I’m sure,” I said. “Somehow, lunch seems pretty trivial after you’ve been thinking about God all morning.”
“God, sir?”
“The Creator of all things,” I explained.
“My creator is Stanley Kalinovsky, sir,” said Jackson. “I was not aware that he created everything in the world, nor that his preferred name was God.”
I couldn’t repress a smile.
“Sit down, Jackson,” I said.
He placed the tray on my desk. “On the floor, sir?”
“On a chair.”
“But I am merely a robot,” said Jackson. “I do not require a chair.”
“Perhaps,” I replied. “But it would make me more comfortable if you sat on it.”
“Then I shall,” he said, seating himself opposite me.
“It is true that you were created by Dr. Kalinovsky,” I began, “or at least I have no reason to doubt it. But that implies another question, does it not, Jackson?”
The robot stared at me for a moment before answering. “Yes, sir,” he said at last. “The question is: who created Stanley Kalinovsky?”
“Very good,” I said. “And the answer is that God created him, just as God created me and every other human being, just as He created the mountains and the plains and the oceans.”
Another pause. “God created everything except me?” he asked at last.
“That’s an interesting question, Jackson,” I admitted. “I suppose the answer is that God is indirectly responsible for you, for had He not created Dr. Kalinovsky, Dr. Kalinovsky could not have created you.”
“Then I too am God’s creation?”
“This is the House of God,” I said. “Far be it from me to tell anyone, even a robot, that he isn’t God’s creation.”
“Excuse me, sir, but which is God’s office?” asked Jackson. “It is not in the schemata of the church that I was provided.”
I chuckled. “God doesn’t need an office. He is everywhere.”
Jackson’s head spun very slowly until it had gone 360 degrees and was facing me again. “I cannot see him,” he announced.
“He is here nonetheless,” I said. Then: “It is too difficult to explain, Jackson. You will have to take my word for it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And now, Jackson, I really have to get back to work. I’ll see you at lunchtime.”
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, “but I don’t know your name. If someone asks for you, how will they identify you?”
“I am the Reverend Edward Morris,” I replied.
“Thank you, Reverend Morris,” he said, and left.
It had been an interesting conversation, certainly more int
eresting than any I’d ever had with Herbie, Jackson’s clanking predecessor. We were a small parish in a small town, our industry had moved elsewhere, a lot of people had followed it, and the other two churches had closed down, so there were no neighboring ministers to talk to. Just answering Jackson’s simple questions had refreshed me enough that I was able to attack the rest of my sermon with new energy.
I worked very hard on those sermons. The church had been failing when I arrived from my previous posting. In those early days, we might draw five people on a Sunday, and just the occasional person any other time of the week. Then I began visiting my parishioners’ houses, I spoke at the local schools, I blessed the football and basketball teams before their regional tournaments, and I even volunteered the church as a polling place for the local elections. The only thing I would not do was allow bingo games inside the church; it seemed somehow sacrilegious to help defray our costs by encouraging people to gamble. Before long my efforts began to bear fruit. These days I could usually expect thirty to fifty people on Sundays, and rarely did we go an entire day without two or three people stopping in to commune with God.
Lunch was surprisingly good. By the end of the day I’d written out a draft of the sermon and Jackson had the church sparkling like new—and this church hadn’t been new in a long, long time. Lining one of the corridors was a row of photographs of our previous pastors; I was told that a couple of them were serving back when Benjamin Harrison and James Garfield were our Presidents. A stern-looking bunch for the most part; perhaps too stern-looking, given the way our membership had dwindled over the decades. I think one of the reasons I was hired is because I leave hellfire and damnation to others; I stand four-square on the side of compassion and redemption.
Jackson approached me as I was leaving for the night.
“Excuse me, Reverend Morris,” he said, “but shall I lock the building after you’ve gone?”
