In early June of 2082 Epstein had suggested that he could cash in on his residual fame by becoming an art history and philosophy lecturer. Universities, Gary had quickly discovered, were willing to pay handsomely for familiar names. And his newfound autonomy was sweet. Now he could even tolerate his father—for an hour or two at a time.
Best of all was Kimber.
She attended his first lecture and had approached him afterward. He found her the most erotic-looking woman he’d seen in his lives—both of them. Something about the way she carried herself suggested that her extraordinary beauty was genetic, not artificially induced.
She told him that for nearly a decade she’d studied the great American landscape artists: Cole, Church, Bierstadt, Moran, and that he, Gary Franklin Smith, had always been her favorite. He knew it wasn’t just flattery, because she could describe his paintings down to underlying nuances the critics had missed. Besides, his Truth Machine light had shone steady green as she spoke. Yes, he was really her favorite artist, seven decades after the worldwide craze for his work had faded. Amazing.
At first they’d become casual friends, meeting for lunch or dinner once or twice a week to talk art history. Unlike Gary, Kimber had never been frozen. She was born in Paris on June 15, 1997, almost fifty years after Gary’s birth. Her father was French, her mother Japanese.
A few weeks after they’d met, Gary and Kimber made love one afternoon. All afternoon. It was delightful, satisfying, sumptuous yet comfortable, so they’d begun sleeping together regularly. Yet both balked at the prospect of committed involvement.
Slowly, they’d begun to share more intimate stories of their lives. She told him of her first marriage, which had lasted only three years, when she was in her early twenties. Her husband had been violently jealous and abusive. She’d fled to her grandparents in Kyoto, divorced the creep, and on the rebound remarried a Japanese man.
Six years later, she’d been devastated when her second husband left her for a man.
She’d remained unwed for half a century.
Gary told Kimber about the harsh treatment he’d endured from his father, and how his mother’s death had driven him to alcohol and drugs. He described his friendship with Tobias Fiske, his loneliness and VR gambling addiction after Toby’s suspension, his recovery and obsession with his latest project, then the accident he could not remember, and his feelings of responsibility about Father Steve’s (hopefully impermanent) death.
And, of course, the continuing strife with his father.
“When you get right down to it, my life’s going okay. Everyone has problems, right? But why in heaven’s name do I react to that sonofabitch the way I do?”
He soon realized he could talk to her about anything at all; he trusted her to respect and believe in him no matter what he revealed. As the love between them grew, Gary discovered his own self-confidence returning for a second springtime as well.
Perhaps he would even complete his masterpiece someday, if he could only capture the spirit missing from it. The perfect sunrise for The Dawn of Life. But then again, during all those years of painting, he’d never seen or been able to visualize the sunrise the work required, had he? So why should he expect to find it now?
Gary sat in my office, holding Kimber’s hand, feeling grateful that she’d allowed—no, encouraged—him to sponsor this reviv, even though it threatened to disrupt what little privacy they enjoyed.
“Do you think he’ll be all right?” he asked me.
“Virginia?” I called to her through my two-way wallscreen. “Care to field that one?”
Observing us from the reviv lab on her own wallscreen, Virginia smiled in wry surrender. “Well, obviously your memory’s okay, Gary. So chances are good that he’ll be fine, too. But you never know. So if not, I hope you can handle it.”
“We can,” Kimber assured her. “We know what Alice is like, and she’s delightful—”
Gary interrupted, “Yeah, maybe about ninety percent of the time.”
“But imagine if you had no memory of your past life,” Kimber chided. “In a way, she doesn’t even know who she is. Under the circumstances, I think she’s amazing.”
“But if you’d known her before… if you’d only known her back then…”
“Which brings up another point,” Virginia offered. “Every amnesia reviv’s different. The memory loss itself, and the way it’s handled, depends on the individual. And some adapt quickly, feel grateful to be alive at all. Like Alice. But others become depressed or even resentful. As I said, you never know.”
“We’ll be ready,” Kimber said. “We have to be. Gary feels responsible for Father Steve. If he didn’t feel that way, he wouldn’t be Gary. I’m glad he wants to do this, because it’s the right thing to do. No, we’re ready to help him adjust; anything it takes, for however long it takes. Period.”
“We should know in less than a minute,” Virginia said.
“Whatever happens,” Gary said, “thanks for being here, Gin, for helping us with this reviv even though we can’t afford to pay you. However it comes out, if there’s ever anything I can do for you—”
“Actually, there is.”
“Just tell me. Anything.
Virginia answered, completely straight-faced: “Give me a lock of Kimber’s hair. I’d like to have her cloned.”
While all three of us in my office were laughing, Kimber somewhat nervously, Virginia looked down at her update screen. “His memory’s still there. He’ll be fine.”
When Father Steven Jones first saw Gary, he didn’t recognize him. On the day they’d first met, Gary had been fifty-four years old, his frame already lopsided after decades of hobbling on a shortened left leg; very different from his present, perfectly proportioned, twenty-three-year-old physical aspect.
“Hey, stranger,” Gary said. “Welcome to the year 2083.”
“Gary?”
“Yep. It’s me.”
“It’s 2083?”
Gary nodded.
“Holy Trinity! It really is you, isn’t it…?”
Soon their conversation veered toward the accident. “Gary, I tried to warn you about the wave, but it was too close and too bloody fast.”
“I’m sure it was… Hey. You remember the accident?”
“Uh-huh. It being our last required early-morning excursion and all…”
“It was?”
Of course. After that sunrise, no reason to go back. Guess that’s why the whole morning made such an impression on me. Where’s the painting displayed, anyhow? I can’t wait to see it.”
Gary lowered his eyes in frustration, overcome by losing what he now understood had actually been in his grasp. “I never finished it.”
“What? You’re joking…”
Gary shook his head slowly. He wanted to cry. “Steve, I lost my short-term memory. Nothing left of that morning at all.”
“Oh, no,” Father Steve said, now also shaking his head, intent, searching.
“It was really a perfect sunrise? One that would’ve completed the painting?”
“So you said. Even looked pretty good to my Philistine eyes, though I don’t know how I could ever explain what was different about it.”
“No, of course not. Damn!” Gary said, “But, hey, at least you’re here. I imagine you’ve noticed you look like a twenty-three-year-old kid. Should feel like one, too.”
“I do. How long will it last?”
“On average, oh, about 1,100 years.” Gary smiled. “Sound okay to you?”
“Praise be to God!” Suddenly Father Steve grinned. “By the way, seems to me I had my wristband set on ‘Document’ while we were out in the boat.”
The implication of that revelation quickly dawned on Gary. “You mean the sunrise…”
Father Steve nodded. “Safely stored in my private archives. Unless it was erased in some monumental worldwide cataclysm. Anything like that you haven’t mentioned yet?”
Gary laughed in unmistakable glee. “Nope.”
>
“Then we can view it whenever you want.”
November 16, 2083
—According to newly released data, average human intelligence rose by .93% last year, the highest annual increase since 2075, the year Mnemex was introduced. If every person on earth were tested today based on 1983 “IQ” standards, 143.4 would be the median score, a figure many specialists deem misleadingly low. “We can’t employ today’s standards when comparing modern intelligence to that of a century ago because we have no reliable statistical data on century-old human artistic, interpersonal, musical, kinesthetic, and emotional aptitudes. Intelligence tests were simply not as comprehensive then as they are today,” notes Yale intelligence expert Dr. Howard Starmont, who ascribes this year’s increase to eugenics, improved nutrition, advanced teaching AI systems, and various medical enhancements. “Unfortunately, our motivation to excel, as best we can measure it, has been steadily decreasing even as our intellectual capabilities have grown.”—In a move considered by most citizens to be long overdue, polygamy is officially legalized worldwide. With several million de facto polygamous marriages formed over the last 17 years as suspended spouses of remarried widows and widowers underwent revivification, the laws have long been deemed hypocritical. “Today’s legislation finally halts a disgraceful injustice,” explains Swiss Senator Alain Haberling. “Why must one spouse be temporarily and needlessly frozen, just so the other can legally take a second husband or wife?”
Jan sat in her pod facing Sigmund Freud. As always, she felt much better now than when her session had started, but her hour was nearly gone. Another thirty minutes sure would have been nice.
Normally, she preferred Robert Steinberg. He was easier to relate to, especially since she and the renowned Dartmouth researcher had been born, frozen, and revived at roughly the same times. Besides, of all the shrinks from whom she could have chosen, Steinberg was by far the best looking.
Financial considerations had not induced her to opt for Freud. Even with the royalties that Virtual Analysis Ltd. paid the reliving Steinberg for use of his likeness and proprietary methods, a session with him still cost less, in real terms, than a movie ticket had during the twentieth century. No, she chose Freud this time to enjoy a change of pace, and maybe also just to remind herself of what a fifty-year-old, never-rejuvenated human being looked like.
Jan felt a powerful seduction from the pod: the Covenant of Safety. No matter what she said to Steinberg or Freud or any of her other AI-spawned companions, her words could never come back. Outside, in the world of flesh-beyond-pixels, the most innocent statements, even those spoken in confidence, could set off ricochets and boomerangs; nasty surprises and unintended consequences.
But that could not happen in the world of virtual humans. Within this barely reduced dimensional context, you could say or do anything without fear of its effect on others. How easy the self-seduction? Jan often wondered how VR addiction had managed to avoid becoming a genuine pandemic.
She was actually grateful that her father had instructed the AIs to limit each of them to an hour a day. Of course, what about when she was independent, living on her own? Jan felt this tiny roundworm of uncertainty burrowing through her mind. What would happen when she and her sisters could buy their own VR pods and control their own AIs?
Freud interrupted her thoughts. “You’re confusing love with sex, young woman.”
“I know. Dr. Steinberg tells me the same thing.”
“For a satisfying life, choose love over sex, my dear. It is far more permanent, and thus worthier.”
“But doctor,” she said, her confidence restored, at least temporarily, “I might not have to choose. I know what I need, and this time maybe I can have both…”
Ben stood in the dining room and lifted his ring finger to his mouth. “The first reviews should come across our newsservice within the hour,” he announced through his pager to all family members, whether at home or elsewhere. It was now ten-ten A.M. “I’ll let you know what the critics say the minute they input it.”
Gary Franklin Smith had unveiled The Dawn of Life on the Artnet forty minutes earlier. A few of the world’s top art critics were no doubt already busy writing their analyses. Public opinion mattered more, but critical acclaim might give the work an early boost, speeding its conveyance to artscreens worldwide, adding sorely needed royalty income to Gary’s WCU account.
By now art was extraordinarily cheap to display digitally, and in quality indistinguishable from the actual composition, quite unlike viewing through VR, 3-D, or even an impeccably cleaned window; more akin to examining the picture visually and tactilely, in the flesh, as it were, at a museum or art gallery. Therefore, most homes maintained a dozen or more such screens. Even at three WCUs per artscreen viewing-year, a well-received work could provide its owner a comfortable income.
The copyrights on Gary’s previous works had expired long ago, so all of his eggs were in one basket: The Dawn of Life.
The moment Father Steve obtained his archive record of their accident, Gary had set to work. While artists no longer applied paint by hand, the task of determining where every fleck of color should be placed by the micromachines had hardly been less demanding. Adding the sunrise to the programming datacube had required nearly 1,500 hours of intense concentration. Gary had to view and analyze every reasonable variation of color, shape, texture, and light on his design AI screen before he could be satisfied.
Then, like any commercial painter, writer of fiction, playwright, choreographer, journalist, or essayist, once Gary knew he’d given his best to the job, he simply released the work cybernetically and waited in purgatory for the world to respond.
While Gary sat apprehensively with Kimber in his home, Jan Smith invited Brandon Butters for a walk outside.
“I need your advice about something very private,” she told him in words just barely true enough to pass a scip. “It’ll only take a few minutes. Dad said we could get any news coming in on Gary from our wristbands.”
The moment they were alone, Jan took his hand and waylaid him: “Brandon, are you still in love with me?” Once the words hung naked on the line, she felt relieved to have put them there.
Brandon’s face froze, as though it might shatter if his expression were to change. “W-Why?” His lips moved little more than a ventriloquist’s. “Why would you ask me a question like that?”
“Because I love you.”
“You do?”
“Yeah.”
He was gaping at her. “Why? Why now?”
“I guess maybe I always did and just never let myself know it. But after living in the same house with you, day after day, well, I can neither deny nor stand it. You’re admirable, not to mention incredibly sexy. And I trust you. I could never trust Noah, which my shrinks tell me is what gave him such sexual power. Now that I understand, it no longer holds me. I’m ready for you, because I know you’ll always do what’s right. I was an idiot to give you up for him. A fool. But at least I know it now. So are you still in love with me?”
Brandon stood in reflection. “What does it matter? You’re married to someone else.”
Taking his answer as a yes, Jan grinned. “Actually, I’m not.”
“What?”
“The law only upholds unions where both partners are either suspended or conscious. When one spouse is frozen, the animated partner decides if the marriage is valid. My choice. My marriage to Noah no longer exists, legally or in my heart.”
“If that’s true,” Brandon said, starting to smile, “and if you don’t revive your hus—I mean Noah, then who will?”
“Maybe no one. I’m not sure I care. Maybe he doesn’t deserve to live again.”
“That isn’t for us to decide.”
“Oh, Brandon. Of course we don’t have the right to prevent others from reviving him. But it’s damn well our decision whether or not we should sponsor his reviv, and I vote not.”
“There doesn’t seem to be much love lost on the part of your ch
ildren, either.”
“He wasn’t much of a father.”
“He’s still a human being, Jan. You can’t let him die. It’s a different world now, one that enforces honesty and redemption. You and your children are his family, his only family. So if not you, who? And if not now, when? Each day he remains frozen lessens his chances.”
“Don’t be so sure. The technology’s getting cheaper every year, and storage is becoming more expensive.”
“Then what?”
“If they ever decide to abandon suspendees who don’t have sponsors, we can always revive him.”
“I suppose we’d have to,” Brandon said. “I’m not sure I could live with myself if we didn’t.”
“I doubt it’ll ever come to that. Besides, don’t you think everyone will be revived? Maybe he’ll wake up in about fifty years on some lovely space habitat in earth’s orbit; find someone else to marry and have a nice comfortable life.”
“I suppose,” Brandon said, but he looked away.
Jan playfully arched her eyebrows. “Either that, or wind up on the out-colony of a lesser Jovian moon.”
“But he’s… he was your husband. And now he’ll wake up alone, if at all.”
“Don’t feel sorry for him. That part’s his fault, not mine. He almost killed my father, and got me to help him. But you saved Dad. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I’ll never forgive Noah, or stop loving you. Never.”
“And what about Ben?” Brandon asked. “Your father revived me. Probably saved my life. I couldn’t do anything behind his back.”
Jan smiled. “Of course not,” she said, then kissed his mouth. “God, I love you, Brandon! Let’s go talk to him. Right now.”
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