Rollback (12 page)

Randy was a couple of years older than Don was, and, as he picked up the handset, it occurred to him that it might be Randy's wife calling. So often these last few years, calls from old friends were really calls from their surviving spouses with word that the friend had passed on.

"Hello? "said Don.

"Don Halifax, you old son of a gun!"

"Randy Trenholm! How the hell are you?"

"How is anyone when they're eighty-nine?" Randy asked. "I'm alive."

"Glad to hear it," Don said. He wanted to ask about Randy's wife, but couldn't remember her name. "What's up?"

"You're in the news a lot lately," Randy said.

"You mean Sarah is," said Don.

"No, no. Not Sarah. You, at least in the newsgroups I read."

"And, um, what groups are those?"

"Betterhumans. Immortality. I Do Go On."

He knew gossip about what had happened to him had to have spread further than just the block he lived on. But "Yeah, well" was all he said in reply.

"So Don Halifax is rubbing shoulders with the movers and shakers," said Randy. "Cody McGavin. Pretty impressive."

"I only met him once."

"Guy must have written you a pretty big check," Randy said.

Don was feeling more and more uncomfortable. "Nah," he said. "I never saw the bill for the procedure."

"Didn't know you were interested in life prolongation," Randy said.

"I'm not."

"But you got it."

"Randy, look, it's getting late. Is there something I can help you with?"

"It's just that, like I said, you know Cody McGavin—"

"Not really."

"And so I thought maybe you could have a word with him, you know, on my behalf."

"Randy, I don't—"

"I mean, I've got a lot to offer, Don. And a lot of things still to do, but—"

"Randy, honestly, I—"

"Come on, Don. It's not like you're special. But he paid for your rollback."

"It was Sarah he wanted to have rollback, and—"

"Oh, I know, but
it
didn't work for her, right? That's what they say, anyway. And, look, Don, I'm really sorry about that. I've always liked Sarah."

Randy apparently expected a response, as if having made this obeisance he was now due something in return. But Don remained quiet. After the silence had grown to an uncomfortable length, Randy spoke again. "So, anyway, he did it for you, and—"

"And you think he'll do it for you, too? Randy, I honestly don't know how much all the work I had done cost, but—"

"They estimate eight billion on Betterhumans. Most people on I Do Go On think it's more like ten."

"But,"
continued Don, firmly, "I didn't ask for it, and I didn't want it, and—"

"And that's pocket change to the likes of Cody McGavin."

"I don't think that's pocket change to
anybody
," said Don, "but that's beside the point. He can spend his money any way he likes."

"Sure, but now that he's doling it out to let some of those who aren't insanely rich have a rollback, well, I thought, you know, maybe..."

"There's nothing I can do for you. I'm sorry, but—"

The voice was getting more desperate. "Please, Don. I've still got a lot to contribute. If I had a rollback, I could..."

"What?" asked Don, his tone sharp. "Cure cancer? It's been done. Invent a better mousetrap? Gene-splicers will just make a better mouse."

"No, important things. I'm—you don't know what I've done in the last twenty years, Don. I've—I've done things. But there's a lot more I want to accomplish. I just need more time, is all."

"I'm sorry, Randy. Really, I am—"

"If you'd just
call
McGavin, Don. That's all I'm asking. Just make one phone call."

He thought about snapping that it had taken forever to get through to McGavin the last time, but that was none of Randy's business. "I'm sorry, Randy," he said again.

"Damn it, what did you do to deserve this? You're not that special. You're not that bright, that talented. You just fucking won the lottery, is all, and now you won't even help me buy a ticket."

"For Christ's sake, Randy..."

"It's not fair. You said it yourself. You aren't even interested in transhumanism, in life extension. But me, I've spent most of my life pursuing that. 'Live long enough to live forever'—that's what Kurzweil said. Just hold on for a few more decades, and we'll have rejuvenation techniques, we'll have practical immortality. Well, I
did
hold on, and it's here, the techniques are here. But I can't afford them."

"They'll come down—"

"Don't fucking tell me they'll come down in price. I
know
they'll come down in price. But not in time, damn it. I'm eighty-nine! If you'd just call McGavin, just pull a couple of strings. That's all I'm asking—for old times' sake."

"I'm sorry," Don said. "I really am."

"Damn you, Halifax! You've got to do this. I—I'm going to die. I'm going—"

Don slammed the handset down and sat quaking in his chair. He thought about going upstairs to see Sarah, but she couldn't understand what he was going through any more than Randy Trenholm did; he so wished he had someone to talk to. Of course, there were other people who had undergone rollbacks, but they were totally out of his league—the financial gulf separating him from them was so much greater than their shared experience of rejuvenation.

Eventually, he did head upstairs, went through the motions of getting ready for bed, and, at last, he lay down next to Sarah, who had already turned in, and he stared at the ceiling—something he found himself doing more and more these days.

Randy Trenholm was right, in a way. Some people probably should be kept around. The last of the twelve men who had walked on the moon had died in 2028. The greatest thing the human race had ever done had happened in Don's lifetime, but no one who had actually ever set foot upon the lunar surface was still alive. All that was left were photos and videos and rocks and a scant few poetic descriptions, including Aldrin's "magnificent desolation." People kept saying it was inevitable that humans would someday return to the moon. Perhaps, thought Don, he might now live to see that, but, until they did, the actual experience of those small steps, those giant leaps, had passed from living memory.

And, even more tragic, the last survivor of the Nazi death camps—the final witness to those atrocities—had died in 2037; the worst thing humanity had ever done had also passed out of living memory.

Both the moon landing and the Holocaust had their deniers: people who claimed that such wonder, and such horror, never could have happened, that humans were incapable of such technological triumphs, or of such conscienceless evil. And now, every last one of those who could gainsay that from personal experience was gone.

But Donald Halifax lived on, with nothing special to attest to, no important experience to which he alone bore witness, nothing that needed to be shared with future generations. He was just some guy.

Sarah stirred in her sleep next to him, rolling onto her side. He looked over at her in the darkness, at the woman who had done what no one else had ever done: figured out what an alien radio message meant. And, if Cody McGavin was right, she was the best bet to do it again. But she'd be gone all too soon, while he would go on. If the rollback were only going to work for one of them, it should have been
her
, Don knew. She mattered; he didn't.

He shook his head, his hair rustling against the pillow. He knew logically that he hadn't taken the rejuvenation away from Sarah, that its success with him had nothing to do with its failure for her. And yet the guilt was oppressive, like the weight of six feet of earth pressing down upon him.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into the dark, facing the ceiling again.

"For what?" Sarah's voice startled him. He hadn't realized she was awake, but now that he turned his head to face her, he could see little reflections of the dim outside lights in her open eyes.

He scooched closer to his wife and gently hugged her to him. He thought about letting the words he'd spoken apply only to his having been short with her earlier that evening, but there was more—so much more. "I'm sorry," he said at last, "that the rollback worked on me but not on you."

He felt her expand in his embrace as she took a deep breath, then contract again as she let it out slowly. "If it could only have worked on one of us," said Sarah, "I'm glad it was you."

He hadn't been expecting that at all. "Why?"

"Because," she said, "you're such a good man."

He could think of no reply, and so he just held her. Eventually, her breathing grew regular and noisy. He lay there for hours, listening to it.
 

It was time, Don knew, that he got a job. Not that he and Sarah were desperate for money; they both had pensions from their employers and the federal government. But he needed to do
something
with all the energy he now had, and, besides, a job would probably help get him out of his deepening funk. Despite the physical wonders of being young again, it was all weighing heavily on him—the difficulty in relating to Sarah, the jealousy of old friends, the endless hours he spent staring into space while wishing things had turned out differently.

And so he walked over to North York Centre station, just a couple of blocks from their house, and got on the subway at the station located beneath the library tower there. It was a hot August day, and he couldn't help noticing the scantily clad young women aboard the train—all of them healthy-looking, tanned, and lovely. Watching them made the trip go quickly, although he was stunned, and a bit embarrassed, to note that a girl who got off at Wellesley had in fact been looking at him with what seemed to be admiration.

When he reached his own stop—Union Station—he got out and walked the short distance to the CBC Broadcast Centre, a giant Borg cube of a building.

He knew this place like—well, not like the back of his hand; he was still getting used to that appendage's new, smooth, liver-spot-free appearance. But he no longer had an employee's pass-card, and so had to wait for someone to come and escort him up from the Front Street security desk. While he waited, he looked at the full-size holograms of current CBC Radio personalities. Back in his day, they'd been a collection of cardboard standees. None of the faces were familiar to him, although he recognized most of the names.

"Donald Halifax?" Don turned and saw a slight Asian man in his mid-thirties, with incongruous peach-colored hair. "I'm Ben Chou."

"Thank you for agreeing to see me," Don said, as Ben got him through the gate.

"Not at all, not at all," said Ben. "You're a bit of a legend around here."

He felt his eyebrows go up. "Really?"

They entered an elevator. "The only audio engineer John Pellatt would work with? Oh, yes indeed."

They left the elevator, and Ben led them into a cramped office. "Anyway," he said, "I'm glad you came down. It's a pleasure to meet you. But I don't get what you're doing applying for a job. I mean, if you can afford a rollback, you hardly need to work here." He looked around the windowless office. It happened that they were on the fifth floor, and so should have been able to see Lake Ontario, but no matter where you were in this building, it felt subterranean.

"I can't afford a rollback," he said, taking the seat Ben was gesturing at.

"Oh, yeah, well, your wife..."

He narrowed his eyes. "What about her?"

Ben looked cornered. "Um, isn't she rich? She decoded that first message, after all."

"No, she's not rich, either." Perhaps she could have been, he thought, if she'd struck the right book deal at the right time, or had charged for all the public lectures she'd given in the first few months after the original message had been received. But that was water under the bridge; you don't get a second chance at
everything
.

"Oh, well, I—"

"So I need a job," Don said. Interrupting his potential boss probably wasn't a strategy a career counselor would have approved of, he thought, but he couldn't take this.

"Ah," said Ben. He looked down at the flatsie reader on his desktop. "Well, you did Radio and Television Arts at Ryerson. Good man; so did I." Ben squinted a bit. "Class of 1982." He shook his head. "I was class of 2035."

The point was obvious, so Don tried to deflect it by making light of it. "I wonder if we had any of the same instructors?"

To his credit, Ben snorted a laugh. "And how long did you work here at the CBC?"

"Thirty-six years," said Don. "I was a recording-engineer/producer when I..."

He backed away from saying the word, but Ben provided it, underscored by a crisp nod of his head: "Retired."

"But," continued Don, "as you can see, I'm young again, and I want to go back to work."

"And what year did you retire?"

It was right in front of him, Don knew, on his resume, but the bastard was going to force him to say it aloud. "Twenty Twenty-Two."

Ben shook his head slightly. "Wow. Who was prime minister back then?"

"Anyway," said Don, ignoring the remark, "I need a job, and, well, once the Mother Corp is in your blood..."

Ben nodded. "Ever worked on a Mennenga 9600?"

Don shook his head.

"An Evoterra C-49? Those are what we use now."

He shook his head again.

"What about editing?"

"Sure. Thousands of hours"—at least half of which had been cutting physical audio tape with razor blades.

"But on what sort of equipment?"

"Studer. Neve Capricorn. Euphonix." He deliberately left off model numbers, and he also refrained from mentioning Kadosura, which had been out of business for twenty years now.

"Still," said Ben, "the equipment keeps changing all the time."

"I understand that. But the principles—"

"The principles change, too. You know that. We don't edit the same way we did a decade ago, let alone
five
decades ago. The style and pace are different, the
sound
is different." He shook his head. "I wish I could help you, Don. Anything for a fellow Ryerson man—you know that. But..." He spread his arms. "Even a guy fresh out of school knows the stuff better than you do. Hell, he knows it better than
I
do."