Asimov's Science Fiction: September 2013 (16 page)

Zach knew the history. But his father always took a long time to get to a point, so he just nodded. He hadn't thought he was opposed to getting the Holocaust memories, until his father started going on about them. Now he was starting to wonder what he was even doing here.

If that's how you feel, you shouldn't get a chip.
But he didn't know how he felt. He wished he
did
know, the way Amy did.

On the end table next to their faded brown chairs was a pamphlet with red block letters across the front:
Will your culture still exist a century from now?

He couldn't possibly tell his parents he was rethinking the whole chip idea, so he stuck to the subject he was allowed to argue about. "It's not like I plan on trying to forget about the Holocaust," he said. "But I'm not sure I want it hardwired into me. Shouldn't I have a choice?"

"A choice about what?" his mother said. "About whether these things happened? About whether they happened to people related to you? About whether you choose to forget everything they did and suffered and lived for and died for?"

His father took a deep breath. But before he could start circling around the point again, the receptionist sang out, in a bored voice, "Levinsons, please make your way to Room 173."

They had to wait for the tech, so his father got to review the history all over again, reading most of it straight from one of the glossy brochures, while his mother sat watching them anxiously.

There were three Jewish chips. The first—"more for historical interest, really"—was Holocaust-only; the impending deaths of the last Holocaust survivors twenty years ago had been the impetus for the first chip.

The second was the broader cultural chip, a collection of memories put together by a coalition of Jewish organizations: Holocaust survivors, soldiers in Israel's War of Independence, American Jews rallying for Soviet Jews, an Egyptian Jew being forced to sign the Pledge to Never Return, an Ethiopian Jew stepping off a plane onto Israeli soil. His father didn't mention the fact that there was still daily squabbling in the Jewish papers about why one person's memories had been chosen over another's. Not that Zach read the Jewish papers, but he'd had to do a term paper about it last year. Every ethnic group had the same kinds of arguments about their chips. Some had refused to try to put together a chip at all, finding the whole idea impossible or even offensive. One of Zach's bandmates was Han Chinese, and wanted a chip but couldn't get one; his parents didn't have the multi-millions necessary to create a personalized chip from scratch.

Along with the history, there were the non-specif ic memories: complete knowledge of Hebrew, Ladino, and Yiddish (either the full language, or just the jokes and curses), a repertoire of ethnic recipes, a song repository, and the basic traditions of all the Jewish holidays.

And then, of course, there was the third choice. All the knowledge and all the memories—except the Holocaust. His father was just getting started on that when the tech entered the room. She was a short, older woman—young enough to be hot, though—with light brown skin and severely cut hair. Zach watched her hands as they moved, describing the chips in a detached tone.

"None of the memories will make you feel like you're reliving them," she said. She had a pleasant, reassuring voice. Zach wondered if her voice was the reason she had been hired to do this. "They'll feel like exactly that, memories. Some you might never even 'remember' unless a circumstance calls them up. If you choose to add personal memories from your own parents and grandparents, those are usually more vivid... "

She lifted an eyebrow, and smiled faintly when Zach's parents shook their heads. "I didn't think so. Some ethnicities tend to be more interested in the family memory option than others."

Amy's family add-ons had cost almost as much as her original chip. Zach's parents had never even mentioned them.

"However, there are those who feel that the Holocaust memories are so traumatic as to be debilitating. You probably know that in San Francisco, implanting chips containing Holocaust memories is illegal without a prior psychiatric evaluation."

"What is your opinion?" Zach's father said.

The tech half-smiled, half-grimaced. "Even though the input is the same, everyone filters it through their own personalities and experiences, so outputs vary widely—for all aspects of the cultural memories, but especially for the Holocaust. Most of my patients who take the full implant adjust quite well. There are those who have a lot of difficulty, especially those who didn't understand the full extent of the Holocaust before they got their chip. The more you've read up on it in advance, the easier the transition will be. I see you go to Hebrew school once a week. That will help a lot." She rubbed her forehead. "You do have to understand that the chips can't be un-implanted. The procedure is not reversible."

"Do you have a chip?" Zach asked.

"Zach!" his mother said.

The tech chuckled. "That's all right. A lot of people ask. The answer, Zach, is that I don't. I'm half Hispanic, one quarter Native American, and one quarter Irish. I wouldn't even know where to begin."

"Then how can you participate in this?" He didn't have to turn around to know that both his parents were glaring at him. "Your parents and... and ancestors... if they hadn't bridged the differences between them, you wouldn't even exist. Do you think differences between people are a
good
thing?"

She tilted her head to the side. "Say there were no differences between people. Who should we all be like?"

"Like—like people who can choose their own way. Who don't want to be trapped by history. Who care about everyone equally. Who are
free.
People like... " His voice died before he could finish.
Like me.

She smiled. "Everyone does choose their own way, Zach. And for some people, the way is a chip. This might surprise you, but after everything I've seen working here, seeing how much meaning people can find in their culture and history, I'm considering getting a chip myself. Probably the Irish one, because it's my Irish grandmother who... " She stopped and gave a little laugh. "We don't need to get into that."

"Aren't you too old?"

"Zach!" His father this time. His parents tended to take turns like that.

The tech just shrugged. "There are new chips being developed that will work even on people whose brain growth is minimal. Twenty isn't the limit anymore.

" Zach's father blinked, then leaned forward eagerly. "I hadn't heard about those."

"They're not publicly available yet."

"When will they be?

" The tech hesitated. Zach wondered if she wasn't supposed to tell people about this.

"There will be a limited run in December. If you want to sign up as a possible participant—"

"I do," Zach's father said instantly.

His mother sat silent.

Zach turned and stared at her. She was biting the side of her lip. "Mom?"

She looked away from him.

Zach stood up. "Are you kidding me?
You
don't want a chip?"

"I'm not eligible for one."

"I'll give you a moment," the tech said hastily, all but scrambling to her feet.

"That won't be necessary," Zach's mother said. "This isn't a secret. It just... never came up."

"What
never came up?" Zach asked.

His mother took a deep breath. "That I'm not Jewish."

Necessary or not, the tech seemed pretty eager to leave once the yelling reached a certain level. The door swung shut behind her.

"We weren't hiding it from you," Zach's mother said, for the dozenth time. "And I did convert, though not, technically, in a way we could prove."

"We agreed to raise you Jewish," his father said, "so we thought—"

"Why?"
Zach kept his focus on his mother.
"Why
would you agree to raise me Jewish? With all this talk about the past def ining me and not forgetting who I am. What about who
you
were? Why was it okay for that to get lost?"

"I had nothing to
lose."
His mother lifted her head. The more Zach shouted, the calmer and more in control she became. "My parents lost it for me. I had no idea who I was, where I came from, and they thought it didn't matter. They thought there should be no differences between people. That I should be exactly the same as every other person in the world, no matter where they came from, no matter what their history or culture."

"Sounds good to me," Zach said bitterly.

"It wasn't coincidence that I married your father. We met at a class about Judaism. You can't imagine how much it appealed to me, the idea of being part of a people who had endured through centuries against unimaginable odds, who never let go of who they were. I wanted to be part of that and I wanted my children to be part of it. And I understood that you couldn't have it both ways. If you want to be part of something bigger than yourself, Zach, then there are choices that have to be made. It's what I tried to explain to you about Amy—"

"I'm seventeen, Mom! I wasn't going to marry Amy!"

"But whoever you marry. If she's not someone who shares your culture, then you have to make a choice, when it comes to your children."

"What if we don't? What if we're not so damn dramatic about it, and just wait to see what happens, instead of deciding that one culture has to lose?"

"Then the minority culture loses," his mother snapped, her control finally breaking. "Then after all those generations of holding fast, you let go of your identity just because you couldn't be bothered to care."

"I don't see why I
should
care about a bunch of people who lived and died before I was ever born, just because I happen to share their DNA." His mother flinched, and his anger broke, a bit. He didn't mean that, not really. Or at least, he wasn't sure he did. "Besides, it's not quite as simple as that. In case you haven't noticed, neither Amy nor I are exactly part of the majority culture."

"Don't be ridiculous," his mother said. "You both were."

Were.
Until last week, when Amy got her chip.

Someone rapped on the door, and the tech peeked her head through. "I'm sorry to interrupt. But we don't have much time, if you're planning to go ahead with the procedure."

The silence was absolute.

"Also, Ms. Levinson? I want to point out that there are no eligibility requirements for any of the chips. You don't have to prove anything. If, er, if that's what you want."

"Thank you," Zach's mother said, her eyes on Zach. "That's what I want."

Zach looked back at her, then at his father, who was watching his mother. Then he looked at the tech.

"I'm ready," he said. "I know what I want, too."

Amy came over to him once he was back in school. Her eyes were clear again, though still oddly old, and she was wearing the short pleated skirt she had worn on their first date. Zach met her eyes, then turned and walked down the hall and out the front doors of the school.

He wasn't sure she would follow him. But she did, all the way down the block and around the corner, into a small deserted park they used to sneak out to whenever they got a chance. Just being there with her made his blood heat up.

But other memories overlaid that now. That first sight of Amy had been a shock, calling up a memory of a girl who looked a lot like her, singing and laughing in Pagoda Park, her face full of hope, a line of Japanese policemen advancing slowly behind her.

When Zach turned to face her, that faded. It was just Amy, beautiful and brilliant and brave, who, despite what he'd told his parents, he had fully believed he would marry someday. He couldn't imagine ever meeting anyone better, or loving anyone more.

"How are you adjusting to the chip?" Amy twirled a slack strand of hair tightly around her finger, a habit she had been trying to break for a year. She had asked Zach to mention it when he saw her doing it, but this didn't seem like the time.

"They're okay," he said. "It takes some getting used to. I have nightmares."

Her finger stopped in mid-twirl. "They?"

"Especially about the 6.25 War," Zach said. "The one where I'm watching my village burn to the ground. I can't shake that one."

She dropped her hand. Her hair sprang free.

He laughed at the expression on her face. "I got both. Jewish and Korean."

She stood there, frozen, staring at him. The silence stretched so long that he heard himself saying, awkwardly, "I can give making kimchi a shot now—I've got a bunch of different recipes in my head, and a lot of good memories associated with the taste. Though I still can't promise I'll like your mother's soup."

Amy drew in a sharp breath. "They let you do that?"

"Not just let me. Once I explained my idea, they were all excited about it—they even paid for it, when my parents wouldn't. There's going to be an article about me and everything." He couldn't stop smiling, even though she wasn't smiling back. "I was thinking that once I adjust to these, I can get all the chips. Understand everyone's culture. And once people know it can be done, maybe I won't be the only one who makes that choice."

"God, Zach." She was staring at him, but not in the wonder he had anticipated. There was horror written across her face. "You had no right!"

"The tech said it was an amazing idea. Said it could change the world. Can you imagine—" He stopped. He was babbling, which was
his
nervous habit. "But I didn't do it for the world. You know why I did it."

She turned abruptly, leaving him staring at her hair and her back and her trembling hands. "I did it for you. Because now we can go back to being what we were."

"I didn't want to be what we were!"

That hurt, more than anything else she had said or done to him. It was a moment before he could speak. "That's not what you said. Not at the dance, or that time on the bridge. Remember?" He stepped forward and raised his hand, but let it drop before it touched her hair. "You said we were different. And we
were.
We are. We have a future together, Amy."