Into the New Millennium: Trailblazing Tales From Analog Science Fiction and Fact, 2000 - 2010 (38 page)

Yes, this other him wasn't just a backup, wasn't just a repository of data. He knew all the same things,
felt
all the same things, and—

The sharpshooter had crawled several meters along the floor of the observation gallery, trying to get a clean angle at GR-7. Out of the corner of his robotic vision—which was as sharp at the peripheries as it was in the center—Rathburn saw the sharpshooter tense his muscles, and then—

And then Burloak leaped up, swinging his rifle, and—

And to his astonishment, Rathburn found the words "Look out, George!" emitting from his robotic mouth at a greatly amplified volume.

And just as the words came out, Burloak fired, and the window exploded into a thousand shards, and GR-7 spun around, grabbing Dr. Ng, swinging her in between himself and the sharpshooter, and the bullet hit, drilling a hole through the woman's heart, and through the chest of the man behind her, and they both crumpled to the operating-room floor, and human blood flowed out of them, and the glass shards rained down upon them like robot tears.

And so, at last, there was no more ambiguity. There was only one George Rathburn—a single iteration of the consciousness that had first bloomed some forty-five years ago, now executing as code in the nano-gel inside a robotic form.

George suspected that Shiozaki would try to cover up what had occurred back in Paradise Valley—at least the details. He'd have to admit that Dr. Ng had been killed by a skin, but doubtless Shiozaki would want to gloss over Rathburn's warning shout. After all, it would be bad for business if those about to shed got wind of the fact that the new versions still had empathy for the old ones.

But Detective Lucerne and his sharpshooter would want just the opposite: only by citing the robotic Rathburn's interference could they exonerate the sharpshooter from accidentally shooting the hostage.

But nothing could exonerate GR-7 from what he'd done, swinging that poor, frightened woman in front of himself as a shield . . .

Rathburn sat down in his country house's living room. Despite his robotic body, he did feel weary—bone-weary—and needed the support of the chair.

He'd
done the right thing, even if GR-7 hadn't; he knew that. Any other choice by him would have been devastating not just for himself, but also for Kathryn and every other uploaded consciousness. There really had been no alternative.

Immortality is grand. Immortality is great. As long as you have a clear conscience, that is. As long as you're not tortured by doubt, racked by depression, overcome with guilt.

That poor woman, Dr. Ng. She'd done nothing wrong, nothing at all.

And now she was dead.

And he—a version of him—had caused her to be killed.

GR-7's words replayed in Rathburn's memory.
We'd just never been in such desperate circumstances before.

Perhaps that was true. But he was in desperate circumstances now.

And he'd found himself contemplating actions he never would have considered possible for him before.

That poor woman. That poor dead woman . . .

It wasn't just GR-7's fault. It was his fault. Her death was a direct consequence of him wanting to live forever.

And he'd have to live with the guilt of that forever.

Unless . . .

Desperate circumstances make one do desperate things
.

He picked up the magnetic pistol—astonishing what things you could buy online these days. A proximity blast from it would destroy all recordings in nano-gel.

George Rathburn looked at the pistol, at its shiny, hard exterior.

And he placed the emitter against the side of his stainless-steel skull, and, after a few moments of hesitation, his golden robotic finger contracted against the trigger.

What better way, after all, was there to prove that he was still human?

by Marianne J. Dyson

"Good afternoon, Mr. Smith," I said as I plopped my backpack on an extra chair in the Lakewood Retirement Center's dining room.

The white-haired gentleman looked up from his coffee and riveted his eyes on me like a security guard verifying my identity. I saw by the relaxing of his shoulders that I was recognized, and that he'd read my nametag. "Good to see you, George," he said. "I wish you wouldn't call me Mr. Smith. Makes me feel old." He smiled at his own joke. I didn't know his exact age, but I guessed he was in his late eighties.

"Okay, Bob," I said, returning his smile and adding a wink. We went through this same routine every day when I arrived for work as a volunteer caregiver. On one of my earliest visits, he surveyed the dining room as if looking for spies and whispered that Bob Smith was a fake name. He explained that he couldn't tell me his real name because the press (he never called them news media) might find out. I promised not to reveal his secret. I suspected he was an actor whose family wanted to hide him from the paparazzi. They had done a good job of it—or maybe he'd had plastic surgery? In any case, I hadn't been able to figure out who he really was. All the staff would tell me was that he had checked in after his wife died in a car crash in the late 2020s. He had some grandchildren and great-grandchildren, even great-great-grandchildren, but I was his only regular visitor. New treatments had slowed down the progression of his Alzheimer's disease, but I wondered how long it would be before he forgot that Bob Smith wasn't his real name?

I pulled my laptop out of my backpack, connected the dual hand controllers, and set them on the table in front of Mr. Smith. "Got a new simulator to fly with you," I said. This one was actually for little kids, but I had found that Mr. Smith enjoyed holding the hand controllers and flying various aircraft. Sometimes we flew against each other, and sometimes as pilot and copilot, me always the copilot. The only time I could out-fly him was in those games where spaceships could jump through wormholes or something that real aircraft could never do. He didn't like those games. He liked the simulators. I had told Mr. Smith that I was thinking of joining the military so I could become a pilot. That's when he'd told me he was a pilot, but that I shouldn't tell anyone because they might figure out who he was. Whether he really had been a pilot or not, I was happy to discover we both had an interest in flying.

"This one is a simulator of the old
Apollo
lunar landers," I said while booting the program. "You know you don't even have to be an astronaut to go the Moon now? You just have to be rich enough to buy a ticket from the Russians."

Mr. Smith frowned at me. "You don't know what you're talking about. We beat the Russians to the Moon!" He crossed his arms.

His angry reaction startled me. Obviously this was a touchy subject for him. "Yes, of course you're right, Mr. Smith. We beat the Russians to the Moon."

"Darn right!" he said.

"But that was a long time ago. Now lots of people go to the Moon." I glanced to the lounge area of the dining hall. "Look, there's a scene from the Moon on the TV right now."

He stared at the big screen like it was the first time he'd seen it. "I remember that movie."

Now I was confused. "What movie?"

"That movie about
Apollo
. The one with Tom Hanks."

I saw the "CBN LIVE" label in the corner. "No, sir, that's a live broadcast." I read the captions and summarized for him. "There's been an accident at an old
Apollo
site. A lunar shuttle computer failed and shut down the engine just after liftoff. The pilot was killed on impact, and one passenger remains unconscious. The other passenger, a historian named Ms. Clara Phillips, is okay, but only has enough spacesuit battery power to last eight hours. A Russian rescue ship can't arrive for several days. Wow, get this," I continued, "They're talking about launching the
Apollo
lunar ascent vehicle! The original one was used and discarded by the
Apollo
crew—this is a replica built by the Apollo Restoration Project that they claim is fully functional. Only trouble is, Ms. Phillips isn't a pilot, and they need someone to tell her how to fly it!"

Mr. Smith looked down at his age-spotted hands. "I'm a little rusty, but I could do it," he said.

"You could? Where did you learn how to fly a lunar module?" Maybe he had a part in that
Apollo
movie. I'd have to check the credits when I got home.

Mr. Smith ignored my questions and continued to watch the screen. He nodded. "Yes, I can do it," he decided. He scooted his chair back and stood looking around the room. "We're in the cafeteria," he stated. I nodded. "I have to get to Building 30," he said.

I didn't know they numbered the buildings at Lakewood. "Where is that?"

He gave my nametag a puzzled look. "What kind of badge is that? Are you a reporter?"

"No, sir. I'm George, remember? I was about to show you how to fly the new lunar simulator."

"Oh. A training instructor. Okay, then. We'd better get moving if we're going to save that crew. Can't let the Russians get there first." He shuffled toward the exit somewhat bent over, but amazingly fast for someone his age. I caught the eye of the receptionist and nodded toward my game setup. She would watch it for me until I lured Mr. Smith back. She didn't need to remind me that Mr. Smith wasn't allowed to leave the grounds. My job was to redirect him somehow.

"Mr. Smith, I think we should take a different way to Building 30."

He stopped. "Why? Is there a media circus out there already?"

"No, no," I assured him quickly. "We just need to use the elevator to avoid all those stairs."

"I like the stairs. Keeps me in shape," he said.

"Yes, of course, Mr. Smith, but you had surgery on your knee a few months ago, remember?" He'd fallen trying to take the stairs two at a time—something he must have done a lot in his younger days. If he were an actor, he probably did his own stunts.

Mr. Smith stopped and looked down at his knees and feet. "I can't wear these slippers outside. Mother will yell at me." He paused, deep in thought. "Before I go, I need to call her. She always worries when I travel. Is there a phone in this building?"

He'd obviously forgotten that he no longer had a mother, and that everyone used cell phones now. He had an old phone in his room, though. It was hooked up to the front desk. The staff was great at explaining that mothers and wives and other deceased loved ones were not home for one reason or another. But often, by the time we got to his room, he'd have forgotten he wanted to call someone. "There's a phone upstairs, sir," I said.

"All right," he said. After he got his shoes on, I'd take him for a walk in the garden. We both enjoyed watching the birds.

We got into the elevator. I waited for him to select the floor. If he had forgotten, then I'd remind him, but it was important to give him a chance to remember. He stared at the buttons. "This isn't the cafeteria," he said. "Only Building 1 has nine floors." He pressed the OPEN DOOR button and walked back out of the elevator.

Now what?
I wondered. It didn't hurt to ask questions. "Mr. Smith, what is it you want to do when we get to Building 30?"

He scanned the hallways in both directions, I assumed checking for reporters. He said softly, "We're going to get those folks in Mission Control to set up a simulator run. We'll create the trajectory for the crew to get off the Moon."

"Oh, I should have thought of this earlier," I said. "We don't need to go to Building 30. I can connect to Mission Control from here."

"You can?"

"Yes, this building has a wireless node in the lounge, where the big screen is." Once I got him playing on the simulator, he'd probably forget all about the mysterious Building 30, and his mother too.

Mr. Smith nodded. "Okay, then. But we had better hurry. We don't want the Russians to get there first."

"Right." I took his arm and walked with him past the reception desk and back toward the dining area. The receptionist looked up as we went by, and I winked at her. Yvonne was a year older than me, a high school senior who worked here weekdays after school. She smiled and came around the desk with my laptop and hand controllers that she must have retrieved while we were in the elevator.

"Hey, Flyboy," she said to Mr. Smith after handing me my stuff. I had told her previously that he claimed to have been a pilot. Though he protested (the reporters might overhear), his face always lit up when she called him that. Then again, I couldn't think of too many men, myself included, that wouldn't enjoy some attention from a pretty girl like her. "Going to do some fancy flying today?"

Mr. Smith straightened up and met her gaze with a shy smile. "I can neither confirm nor deny that statement, young lady. But maybe we can have a drink later in the lounge, and I can show you some moves!"

"I just might take you up on that," Yvonne said with a wide grin and twinkling eyes. She pecked him on the cheek and did a little swirl as she moved back behind the desk. The scent of her lingered pleasantly in the air as I stuffed my gear into my backpack again.

In a whisper, Mr. Smith said, "Women love pilots, you know. Got to watch out, though. Reporters have eyes everywhere, even in nice hotels like this one."

"Yes, sir," I said. Had he been involved in a scandal with a famous actress? Maybe he had been a stunt pilot? I steered him back to the dining area. The tables were filling with early diners. I decided we'd be more comfortable in the lounge. The TV was still on the news channel, and still showing scenes from the Moon. Someone had turned the sound up to hear over the diners in the background.

"We have an update on the crisis on the Moon," the anchor said. "The privately-funded Apollo Restoration Project is working with the National Aeronautics and Space Administration to see if it is possible for their stranded crew to use their
Apollo
lunar vehicle to reach orbit. If the two historians can reach lunar orbit, NASA says it can remotely maneuver an unmanned cargo ship to pick them up. The cargo ship is not equipped to land, but has emergency supplies that would support the two people in lunar orbit until a Russian rescue ship can reach them two days from now."