J. Dunn: Our Share of Darkness

Chloe stared at Rhea as if she’d grown horns. “Fading… what are you talking about?”

It took an hour to pound it into her head, and I’d rather be flogged than endure that again. Chloe wailing aloud, hands over her ears, sobbing as if we were murdering the old man before her eyes. “I don’t want him to fade away,” she cried, spittle dripping from her open mouth. Finally she ran off, leaving Rhea and me eyeing each other.

I didn’t see her the next day—I was out wrapping up some legal matters remaining from Mom’s death. When I got back it was dark. I went upstairs, and as I passed Dad’s room I heard her: don’t leave me. I can’t go on. It’s too hard.

I stopped, chilled to the bone, wondering what to do, whether I should step in, where Rhea was. Then Dad spoke, his voice low and soothing. I left it at that.

She pulled it off. I’ve got to hand it to her; she brought him back. Oh, not all the way. He was withdrawn, with no interest in the business, his hobbies and books gathering dust. At times he sat for hours saying nothing, and when he spoke it was only of days long past. But he was there for her. And the damnedest thing is, she didn’t see him any more often than she had before. Called him regularly, visited him every few weeks, no more than that. Go figure.

Now the matter was beyond argument. Even she couldn’t revive him. So she’d pulled out her hole card: she wanted to dupe him, copy his mind onto cold circuitry, run the ghosts of his thoughts through microchips. Keep him by her forever.

She’d brought it up once before, when the technology—to stretch a term—first appeared, bombarding Dad with brochures, articles, newsgroup printouts. Dad humored her for awhile before finally putting his foot down, the most lively I saw him during the whole decade. Chloe went off to sulk, and it was never mentioned again.

Until last week, when she told me that she’d “arranged” for a dupe to be made. No big deal, only thought she’d mention it, and oh, she happened to have the authorization form right here…

I told her no. The same as Dad had—no discussion, no debate. A waste of time explaining that the procedure was a fraud, the recording of a few high-level behavioral patterns and no more. She could understand that as well as a Cro-Magnon could grasp fusion power. She knew it worked, she’d seen it on the tube, the boxes really talked!

No more could I tell her the real reason: what Dad told me late one night as we sat together on the porch. That he was lonely, that he missed Mom so much, that he could feel her near him at times when he couldn’t sleep. That this transcription business might prevent him from joining her, from going home…

I didn’t dare bring that up. So I simply recited the provision of the will, the latest version, prepared last year, and hit the ground running.

I hadn’t heard from her since, and I’d been hoping I wouldn’t. But Chloe didn’t give up that easily. You could say she never gave up at all.

Clearing my mind, I got down to work. Despite everything, there was a company to run. Dad’s company—I still thought of it that way, after all these years.

Every couple of hours my genie announced that Chloe was calling.

I got home late. The house was silent, Monica and the kids asleep. Too keyed up for rest myself, I went to the back room and poured a scotch.

The phone showed thirty messages. That puzzled me until I ran a preview and saw that they were condolence calls. The news about Dad must have gone out over the Net.

I decided to run them. It was a fine break from the strain I’d been under: sipping my drink with the screen glowing in darkness, sinking into a sweet melancholy as others sang my father’s praises.

The third call was from Chloe. I erased it and, after a moment’s thought, went through the rest. I caught two more Chloe bulletins, and what do you know: Randy, looking hangdog. “Alex, could you call me as soon as possible? It’s important, thanks.”

“Delete,” I said.

Satisfied, I ran the others. Amazing how many people Dad knew: a professor from Straits University in Singapore, a cop he’d worked with during the Big Fear, a young woman who’d taken his virtual course after he retired from business.

I was feeling drowsy when another face appeared. Older man, square-jawed, white mane combed straight back from his forehead. His skin was pale, not in a sickly way but as if a diffuse light was shining through it. I didn’t like his looks. But he seemed familiar, and I tried to place him as he began to speak.

“Hello, Alex.” The voice was low and firm, with a sense of bridled emotion underlying it. “I know you’re enduring a hard time, one of the hardest of all. And I don’t mean to intrude.”

I stiffened, realizing what the call was, what he was. No wonder he looked familiar—he was a virtual construct. And this was an ad, a pitch.

“But what I have to say is important. To you, to your family…” A pause, a slight catch. “And to your Dad.”

The voice was Reagan’s, the eyes Kennedy’s. The jawline was taken from some anchorman dead before I was born, the pallid skin adapted from a thousand years of saint’s icons. A “trusted uncle,” this version was called.

“…No longer is it necessary to simply say good-bye, to watch that beloved spirit slip away…”

I lunged forward, spilling what was left of my drink. That muted stained-glass glow to one side, the bright light over his head. Ancient religious symbols, derived from the operation of consciousness itself, their meaning dropping away over the millennia until all that remained was soothing, empty imagery. A week’s worth of anger and frustration surged within me.

“…To be there, to advise and help, to share your joys and sorrows as the years pass…”

I studied the play of expression, image and voice. It looked pretty damn fake once you knew what it was.

“…I hope I’ve… eased your burden somewhat, Alex. Think about what I’ve said. So much is at stake. I’ll be here if you wish to discuss it.” The image gave me a brave smile. “Best wishes.”

The picture faded to a call set-up display. God, but they were cocky! They’d hear from me all right. Transcrib companies weren’t allowed to make cold calls. And come to think of it, I hadn’t seen an advertisement slug either.

I bent over the keyboard. Give their lawyers a sleepless night, then call Chloe, let her know what kind of outfit she was…

The command died on my lips… she was dealing with. Of course—the company hadn’t broken any laws. She’d given permission.

I got to my feet, head whirling with fury. The call-back symbol blinked at me. “Delete,” I whispered. Another face appeared, earnest and sad. What now—an undertaker, a florist? “Hold—no, off.”

The room was too small for what I was feeling. I kicked at the door when it didn’t fold open fast enough, then glanced guiltily up the stairs. I didn’t want to wake Monica. She’d been awfully good, on the spot whenever I needed her. That meant something in her case. Her parents had been killed during the Big Fear. She was terrified of death, more so than anyone else I knew. With one exception.

So I went out, hoping a walk would cool me off. It did, immediately and literally—a cold night for this late in the spring. All the same I pushed on, down the hill and past the police kiosk at the intersection. The cop waved as I went by.

I turned onto Yale, a quiet side street. A lighting plasmoid dogged my steps, casting a black shadow before me, ready to flash red if I ran into trouble. But I was looking for darkness and solitude. A vacant lot lay ahead; I cut over to it. Behind me the plasmoid bobbed uncertainly then drifted back to station.