Rollback (31 page)

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 Don and she had withdrawn from the bedroom, and now were standing in the study, the computer monitor blank.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 hand went limp in his.

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

But there was no reply.
 

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."

"Sure," said Don. "Come in."

"Where is your Mozo?" Albert asked.

"Upstairs, I think." Don led him up to the living room, then said loudly, "Gunter!"

Normally, Gunter appeared in a flash—Jeeves on steroids. But this time he didn't, so Don actually yelled the name. "Gunter! Gunter!" When there was still no response, Don looked at the roboticist, feeling a bit embarrassed, as though a child of Don's was misbehaving in front of guests. "Sorry."

"Could he be out back?" Albert asked.

"Maybe. But he knew you were coming..."

Don ascended the big staircase, Albert following him. They looked in the study, in the bedroom, in the
en suite
bathroom, in the other bathroom, and in what had been Emily's old room. But there was no sign of Gunter. Going downstairs, they checked the kitchen and the dining room. Nothing. Then they headed to the basement, and—

"Oh, God!" said Don, sprinting to the fallen Mozo. Gunter was sprawled facedown in the middle of the floor.

The roboticist ran over, too, and kneeled. "His power's off," he said.

"We never turn him off," said Don. "Could his battery have failed?"

"After less than a year?" Albert said, as if Don had suggested an absurdity. "Not likely."

The roboticist rolled Gunter over onto his back.
"Shit,"
he said. There was a small panel open in the center of Gunter's chest. Albert took a penlight from his breast pocket and shone it within. "Damn, damn, damn..."

"What is it?" asked Don. "What's wrong?" He peered into the opening. "What are those controls for?"

"They're the master mnemonic registers," Albert replied. He reached below the open panel, to Gunter's recessed on/off switch, located right where a navel would have been, and he gave the switch a firm push.

"Hello," said the familiar voice, as the mouth outline twitched into life. "Do you speak English?
Hola. Habla Espanol? Bonjour. Parlez-fousfrangais? Konichi-wa. Nihongo-o hanashimasu-fya?
"

"What is this?" said Don. "What's happening?"

"English," Albert said to the robot.

"Hello," said the Mozo again. "This is the first time I've been activated since leaving the factory, so I need to ask you a few questions, please. First, from whom do I take instructions?"

"What's he talking about?" said Don. " 'First time.' What's with that?"

"He's done a system restore," Albert said, shaking his head slowly back and forth.

"What?"

"He's wiped his own memory, and reset everything to its factory-default state."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I've never seen one do that before."

"Gunter..." said Don, looking into the two, round glassy eyes.

"Which of you is Gunter?" replied the robot.

"No," said Don. "
You're
Gunter. That's your name."

"Is that G-U-N-T-H-E-R?" asked the machine.

Don felt his stomach knotting. "He's—he's gone, isn't he?"

The man nodded.

"No way to bring him back?"

"I'm sorry, no. It's a total wipe."

"But—" And then Don got it. It had taken him longer than it had taken Gunter, but he got it. The only—the only
person
who had been with Sarah when she'd unlocked the Dracon message had been Gunter. This technician hadn't come here to give the Mozo a tune-up. He'd come to tap into Gunter's memories, to steal the decryption key for McGavin. The rich man had wanted to control everything—and with the decryption key he could, taking over the creating of the Dracon children himself and cutting Don right out of the process.

"Get out," Don said to the roboticist.

"Excuse me?"

Don was furious. "Get the hell out of my house."

"Mr. Halifax, I—"

"Do you think I don't know what you were sent here to do? Get out."

"Honestly, Mr. Halifax—"

"Now!"

Albert looked frightened; Don was physically twenty years younger than him and six inches taller. He grabbed his aluminum case and hurried up the stairs, while Don gingerly helped Gunter get back on his feet.
 

Don knew what must have happened. After he'd called McGavin to tell him that Sarah had passed on, McGavin had thought back to the last time he'd seen Sarah, and, in replaying it in his mind, he must have realized that Gunter would have seen Sarah apply the decryption key, and so probably knew what it was.

Don was livid as he told his phone to call McGavin. After two rings, a voice he knew answered. "McGavin Robotics. Office of the president."

"Hello, Ms. Hashimoto. It's Donald Halifax. I'd like to speak to Mr. McGavin."

"I'm sorry, but he's not available right now."

Don spoke with controlled rage. "Please take a message. Tell him I need to hear back from him today."

"I can't commit to when Mr. McGavin might return any given call, and—"

"Just give him the message," Don said.
 

Don's phone rang two hours later. "Hi, Don. Ms. Hashimoto said you called—"

"If you ever try a stunt like that again, I swear I'll cut you completely out," Don said. "Jesus, we thought we could trust you!"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't play games. I know what you were trying to do with Gunter."

"I'm not—"

"Don't deny it."

"I think you should take a deep breath, Don. I know you've been through a lot—"

"You're damn right I have. They say people aren't really gone, so long as we remember them. But now one of those who remembered Sarah
perfectly
is gone."