Asimov's SF, October-November 2011 (23 page)

"Thanks. I already have one. And his name isn't Corky!"

At home, Larson called his attorney but got Beverman's avatar instead. On his phone's Projektrix he couldn't immediately determine what competency level the avatar occupied. They all looked like the real thing.

"Kristine has set her Cory rip-off loose and it's gone viral. Now we
have
to do something. Do you have any idea how many ‘Corky's’ I saw just coming home from the office?"

"No, but I know I am currently unavailable for anything but an absolute emergency."

Larson closed his eyes. Competency level: zilch.

"This
is
an emergency,” he shouted at the nanorendering of the zilch competency avatar standing on his coffee table.

"I'd be happy to file the details of your message and present them to myself at my earliest possible convenience. Simply state—"

Larson slapped his hand down on the coffee table, scattering the nanoswarm like glittery dust.

Cory the poodle—the real Cory—whined and licked Larson's hand. Larson picked the dog up into his lap and petted him. You couldn't do
that
with a nanoswarm copy.

Larson called his ex and asked her to meet him for lunch. She was an attorney, working corporate cases for a major Manhattan firm. She didn't like being called at the office.

"I'm busy. Why should I meet you for lunch?” she asked.

"Because I want to talk to you about something."

"We're talking right now."

"I mean in person."

"But why?"

"Because I
want to
. Jesus, does it have to be so complicated?"

"Don't shout at me."

"I'm not shouting."

"I don't have to listen to you shout anymore, and I won't listen to it."

"I never shouted. At the most I raised my voice."

"Well, don't raise your voice to me."

Larson took a deep breath. “I won't. I'm sorry. I just want to talk to you about something that's important to me, so I'd like to do it in person."

"All right. Though I still don't know why you can't tell me on the phone. Anyway, my
person
will be at La Bistro at eleven on Monday."

"Thanks. I'll be there."

The next day he dropped Cory off at the groomer's and headed to La Bistro. The dog had seemed morose, but maybe that was just Larson projecting his own mood onto the poodle.

When he arrived at La Bistro, Kristine was already sitting at one of the outdoor tables under the expected Cinzano umbrella. Even sitting, it was obvious she had put on weight—which surprised Larson. Kristine had always been compulsive about her workouts and staying trim. You could even say she was obsessive about it.

The waiter handed him a menu, which Larson ignored. “Thanks for coming,” he said to his ex.

She smiled. “You're welcome, I suppose."

"It's about Cory."

"Okay."

"Cory is my dog. You agreed to that in the settlement."

After a strange hesitation, during which her face went a little blank, Kristine replied, “I know perfectly well what I agreed to."

"Well, you kept a copy."

"So?"

"And now
anybody
can get a copy. Why did you do that?"

She didn't seem to hear him, her face gone blank again, staring.

"Are you even listening to me?"

The pause continued another couple of seconds, then her face suddenly animated. “Of course I'm listening. You're talking about the dog. I know you kept him in the settlement. I signed the document, didn't I?"

"Then why did you cheat and keep a copy? You didn't even like him when we were together."

"Cheat. Interesting word choice. And of course I liked Cory. Otherwise why do you think I'd retain a copy? It's been good having him around. I needed something good, after the divorce. Cory's familiar. That's been a small comfort, after all the changes. And no, I didn't make him generally available. I sent a copy to my friend Twila and she put up the around and around thing as a sample. It caught on—you have to admit, Cory looks pretty cute doing that dance. The sample generated a demand for the full download. Twila asked me if it was okay, and I said of course it was. It's not a big deal, Travis."

"It's a big deal to me."

"Hmm. Hold on a second."

"What?"

Her face went blank, then animated again. “Sorry. I'm here."

"What's going on with you? Wait a minute.” He reached across the table and touched her cheek. The tips of his fingers seemed to vanish into her skin to feel
other
skin.

"Hey—” she said in the wrong voice, pulling back so abruptly she almost tipped over backward in her chair.

Larson stood up. “Who the hell are you?"

"She's my person,” the Kristine face said. “My assistant. I told you I didn't have time to leave the office. You never listen to me."

"For God's sake."

"By the way, your whole attitude confirms my decision. The less direct contact the better."

"I don't have an attitude."

"Of course you do. Your whole thing is an attitude."

"What are you talking about? My whole thing isn't an attitude. I don't even know what that means. All I wanted was to have a human moment so I could explain why keeping Cory private was important to me. I thought we could do that. Evidently I was wrong."

"Drama."

"And what the hell is up with the name ‘Corky'? His name is
Cory
and always has been."

"Twila changed it for the download. Out of deference to you, by the way."

"It's depressing seeing him all over town, answering to the wrong name. It just flattens me."

"God, you and your gloom. Do you have any idea how
exhausting
your negative attitude can be?"

"Uh, guys,” the assistant said, her voice, weirdly, coming from behind the Kristine face. “I'm a little uncomfortable with this, okay?"

Kristine said, “We're nearly done, Vina. Travis? My parting advice, if you want it—"

"I don't."

"—is: get over it. Not just the dog, but all of it."

"The
Corky
download is the only issue."

"Then get over the Corky download. It's a fad. Tomorrow it will be some other fad. I'm hanging up now. Goodbye."

The face went blank again and then winked out, leaving a stranger's slightly heavy but not unattractive features. “Hi, I'm Vina."

"I suppose you think screwing around with me is funny."

"No, I mean I didn't think—"

"Right,” Larson said, his voice rising, “you didn't think.” Vina stared at him, level-eyed, and Larson immediately felt like a fool. “I'm sorry. I guess I wanted to say that to Kristine."

"That's okay. She said you were a shouter."

"I didn't shout. I'm not a shouter. Did I shout?"

"Well, in this case it wasn't a shout, per se."

She smiled at him and picked up her menu. It was a lovely smile, like turning a warm light on her face. Larson lingered by the table.

"Are you really going to eat lunch?” he said.

Without looking up, Vina said. “Yes, I really am."

"Do you mind, I mean what if I had lunch with you?"

"I don't know . . ."

"Right. Dumb idea.” He started to leave.

"Wait. I don't think there would be any harm in it, do you?” Now she was looking at him, and smiling that smile.

"No, I think it's fine.” He sat back down. “I didn't even know they could do that. I mean the thing with the superimposed head."

"Oh, yeah, they can do it. The jector's in my necklace. Look, do you really think this is all right?"

"I don't know. It is if we want it to be."

She seemed to consider that, then closed her menu. “I'm going to have the bouillabaisse."

Beverman's firm was only a few blocks from Larson's midtown office. He walked over the next day, without an appointment. In the outer office a young clean-cut man named Frenkle told him he could expect to wait half an hour before Beverman would be available. “Unless you'd prefer to make an appointment . . ."

"I'll wait.” Larson installed himself in a chair, tabbed into
Business Week
magazine and began turning virtual pages, his mind and eyes skimming lightly over an article about the new Chinese ascendancy in commercial aviation.

"Good boy,” Frenkle said in a quiet voice.

Larson looked up. Turned aside from his desk and bent forward in his chair, Frenkle was making little petting motions in the air just above a downloaded “Corky” poodle. Larson's stomach muscles tightened. He closed the magazine. The virtual dog was looking at Frenkle with adoration.

"Isn't that frustrating?” Larson said.

"Isn't what frustrating?” Frenkle said.

"Pretending to pet a dog that isn't there."

"Corky's there. I can't touch him, but it's easy to imagine what it would feel like. I used to have a live dog. And Corky reacts just as if I
were
petting him. Honestly, I never thought a virtual dog could be such wonderful company."

"Yeah, who would have thought it?"

A few minutes later Frenkle said, “Mr. Beverman will see you now."

Larson strode into the office like he was storming a beach.

In bed Vina was generous and patient, which inspired Larson to be the same. So different from his lovemaking with Kristine. His ex with her beautiful, model-perfect features and body—it was like he was always watching himself make love to her, separating the person from the body. His body and her body. Like it was the bodies that mattered.

"That was so nice,” Vina said, lying in his arms.

"It really was."

She snuggled and kissed his neck. “Can I ask you a personal question?"

"Sure."

"Why did you and my boss get divorced?"

"Uh—"

"You don't have to answer that. I'm so dumb sometimes."

"No, it's okay. I don't think I could explain it, though. I mean, you'd have to have been there."

"I understand."

"I wish I did. Do you think I'm too gloomy? That was one of Kristine's raps against me."

"I don't know. You seem okay to me."

"I think I'm okay."

"You two didn't have any kids, did you?"

"No. Just Cory."

"The poodle?"

"Right."

After a while, Vina asked, “Do you ever miss her?"

"He's right in the next room."

"
Her
—your wife."

"No, not really,” he said.

"Not really but sort of, or, No, you don't miss her?"

"What?"

"Never mind.” Vina nuzzled his neck and sighed.

But later on, after she fell asleep, Larson acknowledged to himself that, yes, he did miss Kristine. He didn't miss fighting with her all the time. He didn't miss the stress. But he did miss her sometimes. For instance, he missed lying in bed with her after making love—after the self-conscious performance part. And he missed walking into a party with her on his arm—Kristine the great beauty in full-on gorgeous mode. Who wouldn't miss the feeling of being the lucky one, the guy with the most beautiful woman in the room?

But he didn't
miss
miss her. He just missed the
idea
of her, sometimes. The idea of certain aspects of her, not the whole picture.

On Saturday afternoon Larson and Vina took Cory for a walk in the park. Larson had been avoiding the park, after his encounter with DeVris and his Corky download. For a while it seemed half the population of New York City owned a copy of Larson's poodle. But today it wasn't like that; maybe the fad was over and everybody deleted Corky or left him as an unused data file, like a real dog dropped off at the pound and forgotten.

"It was just one of those stupid web-fads,” Vina said. “I don't know why it bothered you so much."

"I don't know. All those nanoswarm copies, I felt like it cheapened my real relationship with my dog."

"Why would it?"

"I don't know."

"When you think about it, there's no reason it would unless that's what you wanted it to do."

"Yeah, I guess."

Cory plodded along at the end of his leash, his head down, ears and tail drooping. He stopped once in a while to sniff at the grass, but he wasn't as lively as the fresh air and sunshine should have made him. He wasn't lively at all, and that worried Larson.

Vina slipped her arm around Larson's as they walked. “I might take Cory to the vet,” he said. “Poor little guy doesn't have any zip lately."

"How old is he?"

"Nine and a half."

"That's getting up there, for a dog."

"It's not that old."

Vina hunkered next to Cory, who was snuffling at nothing visible for no discernable reason. She ruffled Cory's fluffy head. “You're a good dog, aren't you?” she said.

Cory raised his head, but his ears did not twitch up alertly as they would have if he was feeling better.

Looking at the top of Vina's head, at the part in her thick, coarse hair (so different from Kristine's angel-soft blond tresses), Larson felt a surge of undiluted affection and companionability, which he identified as love.

"Hey,” he said.

Vina looked up.

"I'm having a really good day,” he said.

"Me, too."

"And you know what?"

She smiled. “What?"

"I'm having it because I'm with you."

Her smile got a lot bigger. “I'm having a
great
day,” she said.

They continued their walk, crossing a sunny meadow. Three girls in short, pleated cheerleader skirts and tank tops practiced gymnastically difficult moves, their tight and tan midriffs exposed as they stretched into slow backward flips and executed high, pom-pom waving leaps.

Vina noticed him noticing the girls. Larson couldn't help but notice other girls. His cheating days were over, though. “Show offs,” Vina said about the cheerleaders, like she couldn't care less, which maybe she couldn't.

"It's a disgrace, all right,” Larson said.

"Did you know I tried out for cheerleaders back in high school?"

"No kidding."

"Yeah, I've got some serious moves. Watch me!"

She skipped a few steps ahead of him, and Larson hated himself for noticing her relative dowdiness. Only minutes ago he was noticing
her
, the girl he was falling in love with. Now the idiot part of his brain was making comparisons. She wore a pair of black Levis and a light gray button down shirt, and when she executed an ungainly cartwheel the shirt fell away, revealing her pasty white skin and love-handles. The cartwheel fell apart and she tumbled onto the grass, laughing. Sitting there, legs spread wide and arms crossed like a pouty child, she said, “Did I make the cut, coach?"