by Mark Alpert
Next to this toy is my digital camcorder, which I used to bring to school every day so I could take videos of Ryan and Brittany and everyone else who crossed my wheelchair’s path. And next to the camcorder is my prize possession, an official NFL football from Super Bowl XLVI, which in my opinion was the greatest football game ever played.
Because the New York Giants were in the Super Bowl that year, my parents let me throw a party in our living room. I was eleven at the time and my doctor had just told me I’d have to start using a wheelchair soon, so the party was a kind of consolation prize, something to make me feel better. I invited every kid I’d ever played touch football with, sixteen of them in all. Ryan was there, of course, and so was Brittany, who was a pretty decent kicker and receiver in those days.
We ordered half a dozen pizzas and swilled enormous quantities of Pepsi and screamed at the television set for three-and-a-half hours. A few of the kids cheered for the New England Patriots, but most of us were New York fans, and we went nuts when the Giants scored the winning touchdown with fifty-seven seconds to go. Ryan lifted me off the couch and carried me piggyback across the room, running in joyful circles around the coffee table while I clung to his shoulders.
Dad took a picture of us, and the next day I pasted the photo to a big poster I made to celebrate the game. The poster’s still hanging on my bedroom wall: Giants 21, Patriots 17. Below the score is a colored-pencil drawing of Giants quarterback Eli Manning—it’s a pretty good likeness, if I may say so myself—and the photo of me and Ryan, our faces flushed and manic from so much Pepsi.
On the opposite wall of my bedroom are five more homemade posters commemorating the next five Super Bowls. The Super Sunday party became an annual tradition at our house, and some of the games were almost as exciting as the Giants-Patriots matchup, but none of the parties was as good as the first. For one thing, fewer people attended each year. Only five kids came to our house for Super Bowl XLIX, and I got the feeling that most of them didn’t want to be there. Dad had pleaded with their parents, forcing them to drag their kids to the crippled boy’s party.
But the biggest disappointment came the following year, when I was in ninth grade. Ryan had joined the Yorktown High football team by then, and Coach McGrath hosted his own Super Bowl party, strictly for team members. When Ryan told me about it, he was practically crying, but I assured him it was okay. I said I was getting tired of the parties anyway. That year, only two people came to my house: Brittany and a younger boy who also had muscular dystrophy. Dad had met the kid’s parents during one of my checkups at Westchester Medical.
The next year—which turned out to be my last at Yorktown High—I didn’t invite anyone. I didn’t even want to watch the Super Bowl. But five minutes before kickoff time, someone rang our doorbell. Dad went to answer it and found Brittany standing on the doorstep, holding a bag of tortilla chips and a two-liter bottle of Pepsi. With a casual smile, as if nothing was out of the ordinary, she stepped inside and went to our couch, and we started watching the game.
Or at least we tried to watch it. I couldn’t concentrate. I was too busy wondering why Brittany had come and what was going through her head. And she seemed a little distracted too. At halftime she asked me, “Are you going to make a poster for the game?” I replied, “Yeah, I guess so,” and she said, “I want to help you.” So we found a sheet of poster board and my set of colored pencils, but this time I didn’t draw a picture of Eli Manning or any other player. Brittany leaned against the cushions of the couch and I drew her portrait.
When I was done, I drew another picture of her, and then a third, all three sketches lined up left-to-right on the poster. I paid no attention to the football game and honestly can’t remember who won. Brittany kept posing for me until the end of the post-game show, and then she stood up to go. Dad offered to drive her home, but she insisted on walking.
That poster is also on my wall. I have to admit, the three portraits of Brittany aren’t as skilled as my drawing of Manning. My right hand lost some of its dexterity in the five years after Super Bowl XLVI. But the pictures are good enough for me to recognize her: the long blond hair, the high cheekbones, the eyes that are blue in one drawing and gray-green in the two others.
As I stare at the portraits now, I realize why Brittany came to my last Super Bowl party. She wasn’t just being kind to me—she was also avoiding something. She turned down Dad’s offer to drive her home because she had no intention of going back there. After leaving our place, she probably went to another friend’s house or another party. Anything to avoid going home. I feel so stupid for not figuring this out until now. Brittany’s parents had always seemed okay to me. Maybe a little uptight, but that wasn’t unusual. I never saw how unhappy she was.
I’m still thinking about her when I hear a knock on the bedroom door. Startled, I turn my head toward the noise. I feel like I’m waking up again, this time from an even deeper sleep. “Uh, yeah?” I mutter. “Who is it?”
“It’s Mom. Can I come in?”
I’m startled again. Dad’s usually the one who takes care of me in the morning, washing and dressing me, and helping me get into my wheelchair. Whenever Mom tries to do it, she gets frustrated and bursts into tears. “Yeah, sure,” I answer, trying to prop myself up. “Come in.”
The door opens and Mom steps into the room, holding a breakfast tray. On the tray are a couple of chocolate croissants and a cup of orange juice. I’m impressed—she’s done everything right. Croissants are a good choice for me because they’re easy to hold. And the orange juice is in a sippy cup so it can’t spill.
“Wow, this is great,” I say. “And it’s not even my birthday.”
Smiling, Mom sets the tray on my desk. She looks a lot better than she did the last time I saw her, at Westchester Medical. She’s wearing gray slacks and a maroon blouse. Her hair is tied in a neat ponytail, and she’s put some lipstick on her mouth.
“Well, I figured I’d give your father a break today. He’s still asleep, believe it or not.” She gently hooks her hands under my armpits and pulls me up to a sitting position against the headboard. “He was on the phone for nearly an hour after you went to bed last night. I kept telling him to let the answering machine take the calls, but he wouldn’t listen.”
Dad was probably conferring with General Hawke or Colonel Peterson. Probably talking about me and the other doomed teenagers, estimating how many of us will decide to become Pioneers. I still don’t want to think about it, so I point at the croissants. “Those look delicious. Where did you get them?”
“I went to that new bakery in Peekskill yesterday. While you and your father were away.” She picks up one of the croissants and slips it into my good hand. “Go ahead, try it.”
I feel an odd surge of delight. I’m remembering all the times my mother gave me treats when I was little. She loved to bake cookies and slip them into my hand while they were still warm. I miss those cookies. And I miss the woman who made them.
I bite into the croissant. It’s nothing special, but I put a big smile on my face. “Hey, that’s fantastic.”
“I’m glad you like it.” She leans against the edge of my desk. There’s nowhere to sit in my room except the wheelchair, and I know she won’t sit there. She hates to even look at the thing. “You deserve something nice after everything you’ve been through. Dad says you were very brave out there in Colorado.”
I shrug and take another bite of the croissant. “I don’t know about that. All I did was sit there and listen.”
Mom looks me in the eye. “And what did you think about what they said? What the general said, I mean.”
She’s determined to talk about it. And I can understand why. I have to make my decision by tomorrow morning. She wants to know which way I’m leaning.
I lower my hand, resting the half-eaten croissant on my lap. “It’s definitely creepy. And there’s no guarantee that the procedure will wo
rk. It failed when they tried it on adults.”
She nods vigorously. “That’s right. The Army killed those men.”
“No, not really. I asked Dad about it on the flight home, and he said those volunteers also had terminal illnesses. The Army won’t consider you for the procedure unless you have less than six months to live.”
“It’s still murder, Adam. Whatever time they had left, those men should’ve lived it. They should’ve lived to the natural end of their days instead of being sacrificed in some unholy experiment.”
Mom’s voice rises. Now she’s speaking in what I call her “God voice.” She wasn’t very religious when I was younger, but when I was thirteen she discovered a website called Comfort of the Blessed Hope. She started ordering inspirational books from the site and making large donations to the minister who ran it. Although Dad wasn’t happy about this, he noticed that the religious books seemed to ease Mom’s depression, so he didn’t object.
But I couldn’t stand those books. Whenever I found one lying on the coffee table, I’d pick it up and hide it somewhere. It wasn’t that I hated the content of the books; I never read any of them, so I have no idea what they said. I hated them because they seemed to be taking my mother away from me.
With some effort, I force myself to speak calmly. “Okay, maybe it’s unholy. But there’s a reason for it. Did Dad tell you about Sigma?”
She nods again. “Your father’s a brilliant man, but he doesn’t know when to stop. He should’ve never built that computer in the first place.”
“He wanted to delete the program, but the Defense Department wouldn’t—”
“He was playing God, that’s what he was doing. I warned him about it many times.” She tilts her head back and casts a rueful look toward the bedroom on the second floor where Dad is sleeping. “But the Pioneer Project is worse. Sacrificing children? I can’t believe he’d even consider it.”
“It’s a desperate situation, Mom. Sigma is out of control. It’s threatening to kill millions of people.”
“I’m sorry, but nothing can justify this. The Army needs to figure out another way to fight this computer. Maybe the soldiers can cut off its power. Or infect it with a computer virus.”
What she’s saying sounds perfectly reasonable, but I’m sure the Army has already considered these options. The Russian missile base probably has its own power plant, and Sigma is intelligent enough to protect itself from viruses. Because the AI is constantly rewriting its code and making itself smarter, the soldiers will never be able to outwit it. At least the Pioneer Project has a chance.
“I don’t have much faith in the Army,” I admit. “But I have faith in Dad. If he says this is the only way, I believe him.”
Mom comes closer, sitting down on the edge of my bed. She picks up the half-eaten croissant from my lap and puts it back on the breakfast tray. Then she stretches her arm toward me and cups my chin in her palm. Her hand is warm.
“Adam, your father loves you very much. For the past few years he’s done all the work of caring for you, because I didn’t have the strength to do it. And now I’m so sorry that I wasn’t there for you.” She slides her hand up to my cheek. “In one way, though, I’m stronger than him. I’ve accepted the fact that I’m going to lose you. Even though it destroys me every time I think of it, I accept God’s will. But your father won’t stop fighting. He has another reason for working on this Pioneer idea, and it has nothing to do with saving the world. He thinks the procedure can save you.”
I shiver. These are almost the exact words Dad used when we were in the SUV, heading for Pioneer Base. I saw a way to save you. “What are you saying?” I ask. “You think he instigated this whole crisis just to make a copy of my brain?”
She shakes her head. “No, of course not. But this idea has been on his mind for years. He’s obsessed with all that Singularity nonsense. He really believes it’s possible to live forever by putting your memories into a computer.”
“Well, maybe he’s right.” I feel an urge to defend him. “Maybe if I undergo the procedure, I’ll wake up inside the machine. My body would die, but my mind would go on working.”
Mom caresses my cheek, then shakes her head again. “You said it yourself, Adam. The thing inside the machine would be a copy. It might sound like you when it talks and even think of itself as Adam Armstrong. But it wouldn’t be you.”
“Why not?”
She gives me an exasperated look, as if the answer should be obvious. “Because you have a soul. And after your body dies, your soul goes to God.”
“But your soul is tied to your memories, right? When your soul is up in heaven with God, you’d still remember your life on earth, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, certainly. The soul and the mind are connected.”
“So if they can travel together all the way to heaven, why couldn’t they make a short hop into a computer? If you can believe in the afterlife, why not believe in this too?”
She pulls away from me. I feel a pang of regret when her hand comes off my cheek, and for a moment I wish I could take back what I said. But it’s too late. Mom’s chin is quivering. “You’re seriously considering it? Going back to Colorado?”
If she asked me that question a minute ago, my answer would’ve been no. Now, though, I’m not so sure. Talking about the procedure has made it seem less impossible. It’s still frightening, but at least I can imagine choosing it.
“If I don’t do it, I’m going to die soon anyway. Probably much sooner than six months. My chest hurts all the time now.”
Mom gets up from the bed and takes a step backward. “Every minute of life is precious, Adam. Don’t leave us before you have to.”
Her face is reddening, her eyes welling up. She thinks I’m considering suicide. I want to tell her she’s wrong, but I don’t know how to convince her. “What if it works, Mom? What if I wake up in the machine and it’s really me inside? Then you won’t lose me. We can still be together.”
She turns her head aside, as if she’s afraid to look at me. The tears come down her cheeks as she gazes at my Super Bowl posters. She turns her head again and stares at my shelf of comics. Then she turns a third time and stares at the floor. She looks desperate, like a cornered animal.
Now I’m worried she’s going to have another screaming fit, maybe as bad as the one she had in the hospital. “It’s all right, Mom,” I say in a softer voice. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
She suddenly reaches for something on my desk. She grasps my Pinpressions toy, curling her fingers around the two squares of transparent plastic and the hundreds of silver pins sliding between them. At first I think she’s going to hurl the toy at the wall, or maybe even at me. But instead she raises it to eye level and presses her face against the back of the thing. It looks like she’s trying to hurt herself.
“Mom! Stop!”
For a couple of seconds she just stands there with the toy pressed to her face like a mask. Then she pulls her head back and carefully sets the toy on my desk. Through the clear plastic I see the heads of the silver pins arranged in the shape of her face. Some of the pins jut forward, forming impressions of her chin and nose and cheekbones. Above them are two shadowed craters that look like her eyes.
She points at the thing. “That’s what you’re talking about. A copy made of metal.” Her voice is loud, agonized, heartbreaking. “I won’t have anything to do with it, Adam. I won’t go with you to Colorado! I won’t even look at it!”
With an angry swat, she knocks over the toy, erasing the impression of her face. Then she runs out of the bedroom.
• • •
Fifteen minutes later Dad comes into my room and performs the usual chores of washing and dressing me. He doesn’t say much and neither do I. I think he overheard the argument between me and Mom—she was really yelling at the end—but he doesn’t mention it. He just whistles a random tun
e as he bends over my bed and tugs a pair of jeans up my useless legs. It’s a little weird that he’s so calm and quiet now. If he wants to save my life, why isn’t he trying to convince me to say yes to the procedure?
But Dad just keeps whistling as he zips up my jeans and slips a T-shirt over my head. I guess he realizes it’s my decision to make. Do I want to live inside a huge bullet-shaped robot? With no muscles or bones or lungs or heart, with circuits instead of a brain, and steel armor instead of skin, and cameras instead of eyes? It sounds so horrible, but what’s the alternative? Mom believes you go to heaven after you die, but what if she’s wrong? What if there’s nothing? Wouldn’t any kind of life be better than that?
Dad finishes dressing me. Sliding his hands under my back, he lifts me from the bed and straps me into my wheelchair. Then he smiles. “So what do you want to do today?”
He’s acting as if it were just an ordinary Friday afternoon and we had plenty of time to kill. I don’t understand it. “What do you want to do?”
He ponders the question, looking out my window at our backyard. “We could visit Shannon Gibbs. Her house is just a mile down Banner Road.”
“And why would we want to do that?”
“Well, she’s facing the same decision you are. Maybe it would be useful to talk it over with her.”
It’s amazing how clueless Dad is when it comes to social situations. I mean, I like Shannon—we were on the same Learjet coming back from Colorado, and we had a long talk during the flight, mostly about the kids we hated at Yorktown High School—but if the tension in her house is anywhere near the level in ours, that’s the last place I’d want to be.
“I don’t think so. It would just complicate things.”
He continues to stare at the backyard. A robin flies past the window in a brown-orange blur. “We should get outside at least. It’s a beautiful day.” He glances at his watch. “And it’s already two thirty.”