Our Share of Darkness

by J.R. Dunn

Illustration by Janet Aulisio

Inside the room the hospital sounds faded. Dad lay unmoving, in appearance already a corpse. Two weeks since the stroke had hit him, and the sight of him still shook me to the core.

I went to the headboard monitor and ran a check. A ritual; the most I could do for him. Everything was nominal, as I d expected. Any change would have triggered alarms at appropriate terminals. It was a good system. Not cutting-edge, but it did the job. I should know—I’d installed it.

This close, I could hear his breathing; impossibly light, a faint whistle at the bare edge of hearing. There was a pause—I gritted my teeth, but the slow rasp resumed a moment later.

Backing away, I found a chair. At first I thought the deathwatch would be a torment. But it wasn’t that bad. Sitting there as the memories rolled by, things I’d forgotten years before. The racquetball that he loved but wasn’t very good at. The way he’d laughed when I lost control of an ice cream cone and wound up with most of it in my lap—Christ, that had to be one of my earliest memories. The first time he’d taken the casing off a computer to show me what was inside, saying that you could put a whole world in there.

Old fool, I thought. You could not. Nothing that mattered would fit inside a machine.

I became aware of a presence behind me. In the hall stood Randy Coover, holding his workcase before him like a shield. As my eyes fell on him he made a move, as if about to bolt. I sighed and got to my feet.

Randy greeted me with a shake of his head. “Hard to believe.”

“It comes. You know that.” I’d attended his old man’s funeral three years before.

“But I talked to him just last month. It’s like it’s not the same man.”

There was a catch in my throat that I couldn’t force an answer past. Randy’s dad had gone quickly—a heart attack during a fishing trip upstate. Dead before the med lifter reached him. “Yeah,” I managed to choke out.

Almost furtively, Randy glanced over his shoulder. I smiled, knowing who he must be looking for. “Chloe coming around?”

“Uhh… yeah. She… did tell me to meet her here.”

“Business?” I could sense that my voice was a little too loud.

He grimaced. “Alex, don’t put me on the spot…”

“Me put you where?”

The lawyer in him suddenly emerged. “Alex, she’s a cli—”

“So she’s your client. Big deal. She’s my sister. I know what she’s up to.” I waved at the open door. “She wants to dupe him. Put him on disc. So she can take him shopping with her, I suppose. That’s what you’re here for, counselor.”

He went rigid, still in attorney-at-law mode. Or almost—there was something in his eyes that wasn’t law school issue. “I’m her lawyer, Alex,” he said, as if ashamed of the fact.

I gave him a disgusted look. “Come off it, Randy. If she wanted to bring in a channeler, you’d handle that too? Same with duping. You don’t know cybernetics, and I do. There isn’t enough memory on the planet to—”

Randy’s workcase buzzed. He fumbled with the receiver. “Hello?” His eyes widened and he made to swing away. Smirking, I crossed my arms.

“Oh, hi… yeah, I’m at the hospital.” His gaze flickered, then he straightened up and looked right through me. “No,” he said quietly. “No, he’s not here.”

I dropped my head, feeling a touch of shame myself. Randy was right. I had no business snapping at him. It wasn’t his fault.

“You’re on your way,” Randy said flatly. I touched his shoulder as I slipped past. “I’ll see you,” I whispered.

“Alex,” he called out before I’d taken more than a few steps. I turned. He had a palm over the receiver. “I do feel sorry about your dad,” he said, each word distinct.

“Thanks, Randy.” I went on my way.

I had to wait for the elevator. As I stepped out, I saw Chloe crossing the lobby with two men I didn’t know. Hard to miss her, in her silk Chinoise-style suit and broad-brimmed hat, the fashion triumph from Shanghai this season. It made me wonder if all the sleek-looking women you saw were as screwed up.

My stomach twisted at the sight of her. The last time we’d talked had been a knock-down, drag-out brawl, and I wanted no rematch. Seeing an office next to the elevator bank, I ducked inside. Heels clicked on the hallway tile, Chloe’s voice ringing out high and shrill: “… he moved yesterday. He heard me. He knew it was…”

Stop it, I wanted to tell her. He didn’t hear anything. He’d never hear anything again.

Then she was past, her steps eager, as if she was going to meet a lover. The two men followed. One of them smirked at the other.

“Now, when we meet my brother, you—” Chloe’s voice cut off. Behind me a throat was cleared. A woman behind a counter frowned at me. “Can I help you?”

I felt my face redden. “Uh, I guess not.”

Leaving the building, I whistled for my car. As I got in the hospital system began paging me.

I spent the rest of the day brooding behind the desk that had once been Dad’s. I knew I wasn’t handling it well, but there was no such category where Chloe was concerned. Rhea might have done better, but she was beaucoup million miles away, en route to a place called “Sears.”

Somebody once said that happy families are all alike, while unhappy ones differ. I don’t know if that’s true. It seems to me that all families vary in their levels of joy and misery, depending on time and circumstance. Maybe in some ideal sense the words are valid, but who lives an ideal?

We were a happy family, more so than most. Looking back, I could see that clearly. No matter what happened, that deep sense of rightness never failed us. Except where Chloe was concerned.

Our happiness was based on what Mom and Dad had. They were soul mates, closer than any other couple I’ve ever known. I hadn’t understood that until I got older and saw what other marriages were like. They were among the luckiest in this bitter world, and they passed their luck on to us. We basked in it, Rhea and I, scarcely aware of its source, taking it as our due, which of course it was.

But not little sister. And that, I think, is where the adage fails. Chloe should have been happy. Why she wasn’t I can’t explain and I doubt that anyone could. What for Rhea and me was the basis of our lives, she took as an insult. She was Daddy’s girl, and Mom stood between her and her rightful place. The dynamics of the thing were obvious, and it was sickening to watch, particularly as she got older—the tantrums, the sulking, the unending nastiness.

Mom never complained, saying that Chloe would grow out of it eventually. As for Dad—he had a weak spot for her, but he managed to control it, most of the time.

But she never did grow out of it, and when Mom died, I saw that she never would.

Chloe said nothing about Mom at the funeral. No need—she’d won, you see. Her great rival was gone, and Dad was hers alone now. All her attention was focused on him. I watched her traipsing around him, acting half her age, solicitously gripping his arm during the ceremony. All the time unaware that she was addressing a shell, that he wasn’t really there anymore, that his heart slept with his wife.

A week passed before the truth hit her. She cornered Rhea and me in the kitchen of the old house where we were staying. Daddy wouldn’t talk to her, he sat staring into space, she didn’t understand…

“He’s fading away,” Rhea told her. “People do that, Chloe. When they’re like him and Mom.”

Chloe stared at Rhea as if she’d grown horns. “Fading… what are you talking about?”

It took an hour to pound it into her head, and I’d rather be flogged than endure that again. Chloe wailing aloud, hands over her ears, sobbing as if we were murdering the old man before her eyes. “I don’t want him to fade away,” she cried, spittle dripping from her open mouth. Finally she ran off, leaving Rhea and me eyeing each other.

I didn’t see her the next day—I was out wrapping up some legal matters remaining from Mom’s death. When I got back it was dark. I went upstairs, and as I passed Dad’s room I heard her: don’t leave me. I can’t go on. It’s too hard.

I stopped, chilled to the bone, wondering what to do, whether I should step in, where Rhea was. Then Dad spoke, his voice low and soothing. I left it at that.

She pulled it off. I’ve got to hand it to her; she brought him back. Oh, not all the way. He was withdrawn, with no interest in the business, his hobbies and books gathering dust. At times he sat for hours saying nothing, and when he spoke it was only of days long past. But he was there for her. And the damnedest thing is, she didn’t see him any more often than she had before. Called him regularly, visited him every few weeks, no more than that. Go figure.

Now the matter was beyond argument. Even she couldn’t revive him. So she’d pulled out her hole card: she wanted to dupe him, copy his mind onto cold circuitry, run the ghosts of his thoughts through microchips. Keep him by her forever.

She’d brought it up once before, when the technology—to stretch a term—first appeared, bombarding Dad with brochures, articles, newsgroup printouts. Dad humored her for awhile before finally putting his foot down, the most lively I saw him during the whole decade. Chloe went off to sulk, and it was never mentioned again.

Until last week, when she told me that she’d “arranged” for a dupe to be made. No big deal, only thought she’d mention it, and oh, she happened to have the authorization form right here…

I told her no. The same as Dad had—no discussion, no debate. A waste of time explaining that the procedure was a fraud, the recording of a few high-level behavioral patterns and no more. She could understand that as well as a Cro-Magnon could grasp fusion power. She knew it worked, she’d seen it on the tube, the boxes really talked!

No more could I tell her the real reason: what Dad told me late one night as we sat together on the porch. That he was lonely, that he missed Mom so much, that he could feel her near him at times when he couldn’t sleep. That this transcription business might prevent him from joining her, from going home…

I didn’t dare bring that up. So I simply recited the provision of the will, the latest version, prepared last year, and hit the ground running.

I hadn’t heard from her since, and I’d been hoping I wouldn’t. But Chloe didn’t give up that easily. You could say she never gave up at all.

Clearing my mind, I got down to work. Despite everything, there was a company to run. Dad’s company—I still thought of it that way, after all these years.

Every couple of hours my genie announced that Chloe was calling.

I got home late. The house was silent, Monica and the kids asleep. Too keyed up for rest myself, I went to the back room and poured a scotch.

The phone showed thirty messages. That puzzled me until I ran a preview and saw that they were condolence calls. The news about Dad must have gone out over the Net.

I decided to run them. It was a fine break from the strain I’d been under: sipping my drink with the screen glowing in darkness, sinking into a sweet melancholy as others sang my father’s praises.

The third call was from Chloe. I erased it and, after a moment’s thought, went through the rest. I caught two more Chloe bulletins, and what do you know: Randy, looking hangdog. “Alex, could you call me as soon as possible? It’s important, thanks.”

“Delete,” I said.

Satisfied, I ran the others. Amazing how many people Dad knew: a professor from Straits University in Singapore, a cop he’d worked with during the Big Fear, a young woman who’d taken his virtual course after he retired from business.

I was feeling drowsy when another face appeared. Older man, square-jawed, white mane combed straight back from his forehead. His skin was pale, not in a sickly way but as if a diffuse light was shining through it. I didn’t like his looks. But he seemed familiar, and I tried to place him as he began to speak.

“Hello, Alex.” The voice was low and firm, with a sense of bridled emotion underlying it. “I know you’re enduring a hard time, one of the hardest of all. And I don’t mean to intrude.”

I stiffened, realizing what the call was, what he was. No wonder he looked familiar—he was a virtual construct. And this was an ad, a pitch.

“But what I have to say is important. To you, to your family…” A pause, a slight catch. “And to your Dad.”

The voice was Reagan’s, the eyes Kennedy’s. The jawline was taken from some anchorman dead before I was born, the pallid skin adapted from a thousand years of saint’s icons. A “trusted uncle,” this version was called.

“…No longer is it necessary to simply say good-bye, to watch that beloved spirit slip away…”

I lunged forward, spilling what was left of my drink. That muted stained-glass glow to one side, the bright light over his head. Ancient religious symbols, derived from the operation of consciousness itself, their meaning dropping away over the millennia until all that remained was soothing, empty imagery. A week’s worth of anger and frustration surged within me.

“…To be there, to advise and help, to share your joys and sorrows as the years pass…”

I studied the play of expression, image and voice. It looked pretty damn fake once you knew what it was.

“…I hope I’ve… eased your burden somewhat, Alex. Think about what I’ve said. So much is at stake. I’ll be here if you wish to discuss it.” The image gave me a brave smile. “Best wishes.”

The picture faded to a call set-up display. God, but they were cocky! They’d hear from me all right. Transcrib companies weren’t allowed to make cold calls. And come to think of it, I hadn’t seen an advertisement slug either.

I bent over the keyboard. Give their lawyers a sleepless night, then call Chloe, let her know what kind of outfit she was…

The command died on my lips… she was dealing with. Of course—the company hadn’t broken any laws. She’d given permission.

I got to my feet, head whirling with fury. The call-back symbol blinked at me. “Delete,” I whispered. Another face appeared, earnest and sad. What now—an undertaker, a florist? “Hold—no, off.”

The room was too small for what I was feeling. I kicked at the door when it didn’t fold open fast enough, then glanced guiltily up the stairs. I didn’t want to wake Monica. She’d been awfully good, on the spot whenever I needed her. That meant something in her case. Her parents had been killed during the Big Fear. She was terrified of death, more so than anyone else I knew. With one exception.

So I went out, hoping a walk would cool me off. It did, immediately and literally—a cold night for this late in the spring. All the same I pushed on, down the hill and past the police kiosk at the intersection. The cop waved as I went by.

I turned onto Yale, a quiet side street. A lighting plasmoid dogged my steps, casting a black shadow before me, ready to flash red if I ran into trouble. But I was looking for darkness and solitude. A vacant lot lay ahead; I cut over to it. Behind me the plasmoid bobbed uncertainly then drifted back to station.

I crossed the lot, shoes sinking into damp soil, mind filled with visions of Chloe falling under a bus, Chloe in front of a firing squad, Chloe dangling over a cage of starving Dobermans. Old images, and not mine alone. Once Rhea and I had sat for an hour in the backyard, thinking up novel finales while the victim glared from the porch, certain that we were talking about her but damned if she’d pay any attention.

Kicking at the odd bush in my path, I reached the center of the field, marked by the shapeless remains of a fireplace. I sat on the cold brick. A house had stood there, burned down during the Big Fear. Somebody taking advantage of the disorder for a bit of personal vengeance, I suppose.

Thoughts of Chloe vanished. The Big Fear had probably been Dad’s finest moment. That bizarre, inexplicable week when panic had gripped the nation by the throat. Forty years of paranoia, demagoguery, and media manipulation come home to roost. Half the country convinced that some unidentified “they” was preparing to bring down the Apocalypse. Black, white, Jewish, Latino—didn’t matter; whatever you were, somebody somewhere somehow was out to get you.

They say that the net sentries had nothing to do with how it had all fizzled out. I’d like to hear a better explanation.

Certainly nobody else did anything constructive. The cops barricaded themselves in their stations. The National Guard deserted en masse. The White House responded with timid press releases that only kicked the uproar to a higher level.

I was four at the time, and didn’t really understand what was happening. Something—maybe the torching of this very house—had prompted me to slip downstairs late one night, to Dad’s computer room. The Playroom, Mom called it.

He sat unshaven, shirt open, keying away at his comp. “Hey, sport,” he said when he saw me. “Can’t sleep?”

I mumbled something, unwilling to admit I was afraid, finally asking if the rioters (as if I knew what a rioter was) were coming. He chuckled, set me on his lap, and pointed to the screen, telling me who he was in contact with, what they were doing. Diamond Dog in Frisco, Carrie Lee in Mobile, Karim V in Detroit—hundreds of them, connected by silicon and cable, throwing in their weight where the rest of society had broken. Organizing neighborhood patrols, knocking on doors to reassure people, pulling the more hysterical news anchors off the air, coaxing the cops out of their fortresses.

He must have realized that—smart kid that I was—I could sense a difference between the real world and the virtual. Lifting me up, he carried me out to the porch. “Quiet night,” he said as we descended the steps, and it was quiet, and dark—most of the power was down at that point. He took me to the street. At the curb he swung slowly around, the shifting of his feet the only thing that broke the stillness. “No rioters around here.”

His eyes lifted to the sky, the stars piercingly clear in the absence of man-made light. Throwing his head back, he pointed at them. “See that, Alex? That’s the biggest thing there is. Bigger than it looks. But I’ll tell you something: we know what it is. All of it. We can touch it, too. There are people out there right now.” He paused as I followed his gaze, as my world cracked wide and leapt outward, as I realized that he wasn’t talking about only the stars, but what lay beyond them, and what lay beyond that in turn.

“Someday, we’ll take hold of it all. And if we can do that, kiddo, we can handle anything. So don’t worry about rioters. They’re nothing much.”

We lingered a moment or two before going inside. At the door to the back room, he stiffened at the sight of the monitor, then set me down and darted toward it. A long sigh escaped him. “St. Louis is back on-line,” he whispered, then reached out to tickle me beneath the ribs. “We’re winning, kiddo!”

And I lay down in the easy chair in the corner, and fell asleep watching my father, and a thousand others, save the sum of things.

That’s what I should be thinking about now, I told the blurred stars overhead. Not how to outwit my neurotic little sister.

The cold was beginning to bite, so I headed back to the house. Monica was waiting for me, hair mussed, a wry look on her face. It took me only a second to grasp what it meant.

“Chloe called.”

Monica nodded wearily. I slumped against the wall.

“Hey,” she said, wrapping her arms around me. “Want me to take care of it?”

I was sorely tempted. After we got married Monica had put Chloe in her place real quick in some way I’d never understood. One thing I could be sure of was that she wouldn’t dare show her face here.

I shook my head. “Not even you, babe.”

“Well, in that case, you’ll need your rest. You can be damn sure she’s sleeping easy. So come on up.”

My tired brain settled on something. “In a minute.”

“You’re not calling her back?”

“No way.” I went to the study. “Search,” I told the system. It signaled ready. “Copy everything available on transcription, minus the crap.” The system knew what my definition of crap was.

I left the unit clicking and humming behind me. Monica was waiting when I reached the stairs.

There was no change the next day. I wasn’t surprised. There would only be one more change coming for him, ever.

I had a horror that it might happen when I wasn’t there. It wouldn’t matter to him; he’d said his good-byes. But it meant something to me.

I wondered if Chloe felt the same, or if he was only a husk to her, with the real Philip Markham hovering somewhere in the ozone, waiting to be retrieved.

Who gave a damn what Chloe thought? She barely grasped the logic of her own position. Kept throwing the “Turin hypothesis” at me, as if it had been named for the city, as if the Shroud had something to do with it. Which, in her mind, could well be the case. When I asked her what the hypothesis stated, she said, well, if it sounds like somebody, it is somebody. Thus promoting tape recorders to human status.

I’d never been impressed by Turing’s thinking. Who was asking the questions—Bertrand Russell or JoJo the Dog-faced Boy? And who was answering? Turing—and Moravec, and Minsky—had been clever but not deep. They hadn’t foreseen that the idea would be taken up by the vultures, eager to make a buck off of human misery. Recording a cartoon of the original personality, selling it as the soul, the essence. At twenty-five grand a pop.

But to Chloe it wasn’t a cybernetic Ouija board at all. No, it was science, it had to be true. Why, Daddy could be downloaded into a new body someday, good as this one, even better. Who was I to cheat him of that? She was going to do it. She’d be walking the Earth long after I was dust.

It had cost me not to laugh. The picture of Chloe as an immortal superwoman had its comic aspects.

I just couldn’t stop picking at it, couldn’t leave it alone. A shameful thought occurred to me when I looked back at Dad: why didn’t he just let go, save me this trouble? Why hang on?

Nothing remained aside from the waiting. Go on, old man. Go to your dear one, in the world beyond the world. There’s nothing left to do here.

I needed a break. Stepping out in the hall, I paused to stretch.

“Well, hello there.”

I turned to see two men approaching. At first I didn’t recognize them, then I remembered, they’d been with Chloe yesterday. I looked between them as they came forward, smiling at nothing. So these were the noble transcrib techs—though techs probably wasn’t the proper word. I’d spent my life around cybernetics people, and this pair didn’t fit the mold.

“Mr. Markham,” the taller one said. “Glad we ran into you.”

Ran into me, bull—they’d been leaning against the wall, waiting.

“We just concluded a procedure in the other wing and learned you were in the building,” the sec$nd one said.

I was about to ask exactly how they’d learned that when the tall one reached into his jacket and pulled out a brochure. He handed it to me. “We thought, if you were free, that perhaps we could initiate orientation.”

It was a holo brochure, expensive and flashy. No company name anywhere that I could see. I flipped it open. A picture formed: Chloe and me, in stiff, generic poses, against a hazy background. Between us stood Dad, a grotesque smile on his face.

I raised my head. “Orientation?”

“That’s right. We like to delineate the process, allay people’s concerns—”

“My sister’s been oriented already? Went well, did it?”

He paused, smile fading. “Why, yes—”

“That’s why you were laughing at her yesterday?”

“Excuse me.” It was the PA. “Would you lower your voices, please?”

“Steve,” the short one said, “maybe we should wait for counselor Reynolds—”

“That’s what you were doing—laughing.” I waved the brochure. The picture flickered on and off. “Joke a minute in your business, no?”

“Gentlemen, this is a hosp—”

“Now look here, sir—”

“No, you look.” Snapping the holo crystal, I felt a flash of pain as broken glass cut my thumb. I bounced the brochure off his chest. “See that, you fucking vampire?”

He fell back, his eyes wide. The other one grabbed my shoulder. I brushed away his arm and swung toward him.

“Hey,” somebody shouted.

“Now mister, wait—” The short man backed into the wall. He glanced at his partner. “Steve—!”

“What’s the problem here?”

A big man in white frowned at me, another nurse, a woman, right behind him. I swept an arm at the pair. “I want these motherfuckers out of this hospital.”

“Excuse me, sir,” the female nurse said. “That kind of talk isn’t—” The man lifted a hand to shush her. “Let me get this straight, Mister—”

“I want them gone,” I shouted. “Now! Fucking pimps—”

The woman turned away. “I’ll call security—”

“Hold it, Peg.” The man drew her close and whispered something. She frowned at him but then nodded and stepped aside.

The man came toward me. “Mister Markham,” he said quietly. “Seems we got a comm glitch of some sort here.”

I felt my skin redden as I realized what kind of spectacle I’d made of myself. “I want those… leeches kept away from my father.”

“Got you,” the nurse said. “Up to me, they wouldn’t be hanging around at all. But—’’ His square face grew quizzical. “Your sister seems to think you’re going through with it.”

“No way.”

He grunted to himself. I noticed he was wearing a sunburst cross earring. A Reform Catholic—they considered transcription to be a mockery of God’s will.

“I wondered, knowing you’re a computer man and all,” he went on. “But she’s already arranged for system backup.” He bit his lip. “You talk this over with her? None of my business, you understand.”

“Sometimes talking’s not enough.”

“Clear,” he said. “Well, since they’re with her, I can’t give ’em the boot, but, uhh… a little pressure won’t hurt.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“And about your sister…” He paused. “I was here when she had her trouble…”

I had to think of what trouble he meant. It must have been the breakdown that forced her to quit college. Funny, he didn’t look that old.

“You know, there’s the chaplain, or the shrinks—’’ he ended with a shrug.

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“You do that. The Markhams done plenty for this place. We oughta return the favor.”

I headed for the elevators. Behind me the nurse said, “How many times you gotta be told not to solicit on premises?” The techs began talking at once, a barrage of protest. The only thing I could gather was that Chloe would be pulling in any minute.

I walked on to the elevator. At the corner three people stood talking, a woman and two men. The woman’s voice was high and throaty, as if she’d been crying. But all I had eyes for was what she was carrying.

It was a portable optical memory unit. A soul box. Not the usual black or gray—this one was a light pink. She clutched it protectively, as if holding a newborn child. I thought of a cartoon I’d seen: a man staring at a box just like it and saying, “Doesn’t he look natural?”

The man she was speaking to was a caricature himself, a trusted uncle come to life. Same preacher’s mane, pale complexion, a black suit and white turtleneck to heighten the resemblance to a priest.

The other man, evidently the husband, caught my gaze. He flushed and looked away. I went on into the elevator.

Outside I gave a whistle. I stepped off the curb as my car pulled up. Dad taught me that trick. I’d made a lot of spare cash in high school modifying the other kids’ car systems. Common enough today, but back then it was a bitch tweaking the frequency recognition software. One time this big mo torhead named Squeeg came around. He had a retrofitted ’98 Mustang, and he wanted—

“Alex!”

Without pausing, I opened the door and got in. A moment later a white glove rapped at the passenger window. “Alex, wait.”

I kept my head down. If I met her eyes, I’d get back out. I just knew it. We’d fight, right here, in public. I’d deck her, I swear to God—

“First,” I said, gripping the wheel. The rapping grew frantic. Unwillingly, as if under compulsion, I turned.

Chloe stared at me beseechingly, both gloves up. One was holding a transcrib brochure.

I lifted my hand, whether to wave her away or strike at her I don’t know. Then the car was moving. A guy about to cross to the lot leapt back. He shouted something as I passed. I didn’t look in the mirror.

I had a mild buzz on when I got home. I’d stopped at the club for a couple of drinks. The guys at the bar were all real sympathetic.

The house system told me that Monica had gone food shopping. Funny that remote ordering had never caught on; people like to get out and around.

The monitor displayed no less than fifty-three calls. I shook my head. I couldn’t bear going through them tonight. But two were marked urgent, one local and another ultra-long distance. I could well guess who they were from.

But the first was a surprise—Randy, glum and lawyerly. “Alexander Markham.” He glanced to one side. “April 21, 3:58 p.m. This is to notify you that my client, Chloe Markham-Lee…”

Randy’s face screwed up. “Markham-Elliot, has instituted legal proceedings concerning the possession of the psyche of your father…”

The fax whined and a sheaf of papers emerged. Tearing them off, I tossed them on the desk.

“Ah, hell with it.” Randy threw his arms wide. “She’s on the warpath now, bro. I don’t know what you did, but she wanted a restraining order to keep you out of the hospital. I convinced her that was a stupid idea. But this other thing… there’s no reasoning with her.”

He regarded me for a moment. “Can’t you even talk to her? Your own sister? She wants somebody to hold her hand, for chrissake. I can’t do it. It’s not my place, and…” He snickered. “Not enough billing hours since time began worth that.

“Anyway, there’s the paperwork. Look it over. I’ll be in touch.”

The screen blanked. I reached for the sheets. But why bother? There wasn’t a judge in town who’d issue the kind of order Chloe wanted.

Instead I brought up the second call. The screen wavered and Big Sis appeared, floating in midair, legs folded underneath her.

“Alex?.. Rhe,” she said, as if afraid that I’d have trouble placing her. I opened my mouth to say “hi,” clamped it shut in embarrassment. The time delay was something like seven or eight minutes.

Rhea’s eyes narrowed. “It’s about the Pest.”

I nodded. I’d guessed that it would be.

“She called this morning. Can you believe it? Not a peep out of the little slug before I left, and now she gives me a ring. And get this: she called live. Actually paid a premium. How do you like that?”

I didn’t. The space bug had missed me and Chloe, going straight from Dad to Rhea. But where I couldn’t see the point of it, Chloe was flat-out hostile. She hadn’t even gone down to see Rhea lift off.

“But I figured, it’s about Dad, let bygones be bygones. I felt bad I didn’t make the first move. And she sounded perfectly normal.” Rhea sighed. “At first.”

I shifted in the chair. Something wasn’t right. Rhea was speaking far too calmly. She was never calm where Chloe was concerned.

“She starts with that download BS, how nice it would be, how much Dad deserves it, on and on. I was getting madder by the second. I really was.” Rhea’s voice grew confidential. “But the more she talked, the worse she got. Crying, doing that thing with her hands. By the time she finished she was in hysterics. It wasn’t fake, either—you’ll see on the recording. Hiccups, tears dripping off her face, and she just kept talking. It was creepy, Alex.”

Somebody shot past Rhea, evidently brushing against her. She swung to one side, grabbing the console with both hands. “Sorry, Rhe,” a voice called out. “Didn’t know you were on the phone.”

Rhea made a face at whoever it was and got herself settled.

“She was begging me. Not straight out, no. Circling around it. But—oh, you know how badly we get along. Think how much she must be hurting to go that far.”

Throwing her head back, Rhea ran a hand through her hair. I knew that gesture. It was called: Big Sis Choosing the Higher Path. Not as dramatic as usual, with her hair cut to mission length, but effective all the same.

“I’m giving her permission, Alex. Running it through Houston—she’ll get it tomorrow. I want you to know first. It… it’s no big thing. Daddy won’t know. Not really.”

Her voice went higher. “I never saw her like that before. Look at the recording, you’ll see. She’s our little sister, Alex. We can’t make her walk the plank.”

Rhea’s face softened. “I know you think I’m letting you down,” she said. “I guess I am. But… don’t be mad, huh?” She spoke another word that the mike didn’t pick up. “Well—kiss Daddy good night for me.”

I sat glaring at the dark screen. Don’t be mad, Junior. Let bygones be bygones. We all have to stick together now. Easy for her to say, sitting where she was—

The monitor lit up again, revealing the Pest herself, wearing the same outfit I’d seen earlier. “Rhea?” she said in a helpless voice.

I got up and slapped the unit off. I didn’t need any of that. Chloe turning on the waterworks—nothing new there. But what was Rhea’s story? She’d never been taken in by that act before. Up in the Big Dark too long, that was her problem.

But no, it went deeper than that. As far back as I could recall, whenever Rhea was reluctant to face something, plop it went into Alex’s lap. He’ll take care of it. He’s the boy—he has to. Forty years and as many million miles hadn’t changed a thing. That was family life for you.

Well, we’d see about that. I swung back to the monitor. Tomorrow, she’d said.… A lot could happen in one day.

I hesitated over the board. The image of Chloe, face sunk in misery, nagged at me. Maybe I should take a look; but why waste time? Instead I switched to phone and called Horst Beyer, my senior programmer. He was a German who’d emigrated to the US after the native cybernetics industry was banned during the NATO occupation. He knew his stuff—smart as a whip, and not that much of a NeoTeuton either.

He answered on the first ring. “You check that data I flashed you?”

“If you call it ‘data,’ Alex.” Horst looked affronted. “Utter nonsense, in my view.”

“Am I right in thinking that they utilize the hospital system?”

“Of course. What they call a transcription program’ is nothing more than standard copyware. It couldn’t process a thing on its own.”

“Uh-huh. You free tonight?” He nodded. “All right. Here’s what I want…”

My genie woke me at dawn. Dad’s condition was deteriorating. Vital signs unstable: breathing shallow, heartbeat unsteady. I rolled upright and sat at the side of the bed, head in my hands. It would be today.

Behind me Monica moved. Her hand touched my shoulder. I clasped it tightly. After a few minutes I got up and got dressed. At the hospital I used the service entrance. I ran into Carl Suggins, the security chief, as I reached the comp room.

Checking the system, was I? Couldn’t blame me. Hell of a man, your pop. Don’t make ’em like that anymore.

Inside I took out the disc and entered the viroid Horst had written. He’d done all the rewrites on the original software, so there was no compatibility problem. All the same I spent over an hour running checks to make sure.

Then I went to the coffee shop. Eating was out of the question, but I drank two quick cups as I nerved myself to go upstairs. I was heading for the elevator when someone called my name.

It was Randy. He rose from a sofa, feet well apart, as if preparing to challenge me. For the first time I felt sorry for him: caught between two Markhams. What a nightmare that must be.

He tapped his case. A document scrolled out. He handed it to me wordlessly. I opened it, knowing full well what it had to be—Chloe wouldn’t need Rhea’s authorization after all.

The heading caught my eye. “Maryville?” That was a county seat to the northwest, snug on the state border. Randy had done some traveling. “You went to Maryville.”

He shrugged. “They had the right judge.”

“What grounds?”

Randy gestured vaguely. “Possibility of minor antecedent strokes affecting judgment. The most recent will…” His voice trailed off.

“I get to appeal, right?”

“Sure, but—” He pointed at the order. “Time is of the essence, Alex.”

“Yeah, it would be.” I glanced around the lobby. “I don’t see Chloe.”

“She’ll be here.”

“She’s overjoyed, I suppose.”

“Oh, no.” He looked me in the eyes for the first time. “To talk to, maybe, but… I’m telling you, those bastards have dealt with a thousand Chloes. They know every trick, every last button to push. Got an answer for everything. Doesn’t matter, Alex. She knows.”

“Damn well ought to,” I muttered. “I told her.”

“I guess you did,” he agreed, and turned away. I went on upstairs.

Dad didn’t look any worse. How could he? I raised a hand to the display, only to let it fall. That didn’t matter anymore. He was safe. He had his last wish. She’d never get him now, to use as a crutch until her own time came.

But the sense of triumph wasn’t there. Only a hollowness, as if, in the end, I’d simply let him down.

Once when we were in school the other kids had turned on Chloe, with that unerring childhood instinct for finding an easy target. They followed her home, teased her, knocked books out of her arms. And me—well, she’d been snotty to me the day before, so I kept to the other side of the street, ignoring the whole thing, running off when her wails got too loud.

Dad was so angry. He didn’t hit me. He never had, that I could recall. He did worse: told me that I’d foiled him, that he was ashamed of me, that he couldn’t believe that I hadn’t tried to protect my own sister.

I thought of what Randy had said: how those vultures had manipulated her, had taken advantage of the fact that she was still a child, as she would always be. She’d had to face them by herself, alone in her hardest hour, her weakness completely exposed.

I heard footsteps outside, low voices. I reached for Dad’s shoulder. My hand froze inches away.

“Alex?”

She looked terrible: lines on her face I’d never noticed before, dark rings under her eyes that makeup couldn’t hide. She stared at me fearfully, holding one glove, pulling at it convulsively with the other. “We’re here.”

I swallowed the sarcastic remark I’d normally have made and moved away from the bed. She swept forward, bending over to whisper to Dad. I could hear the whine in her voice.

The others waited outside. I felt like slamming the door in their faces. They had no business seeing her this way.

Chloe straightened up. As if at a signal they came in, the two techs giving me sidelong glances, the counselor blandly planting himself between me and the bed.

I watched as they set up. I might have left any time. The thought never crossed my mind.

Chloe winced as they stuck the leads to Dad’s scalp. The counselor murmured something reassuring.

“… The hell.” The tall guy frowned at his laptop screen.

“What’s wrong?” Chloe cried.

The squat one shuffled close. The counselor bent over them, with the air of a priest hearing confession. “Not acquiring the system. Never seen anything like it…”

Chloe raised shaking hands. Her mouth was open as if to scream. For a moment she stood frozen in that pose, then a shudder went through her and she swung slowly toward me. Her eyes caught mine, and I shivered myself as they bored into me. “Fix it” she hissed.

No use denying it; she’d figured it out. When it mattered, she always could. Activating my genie, I hit a few keys. “There we go,” the tech said. The counselor gave me an outraged glare. I stared back until he dropped his eyes, and left the room.

I slumped against the opposite wall. Randy was waiting a few steps away, staring at the floor, hands gripping his case as if to crush it. I ignored him. For an unknown time silence reigned.

Then something beeped and a ringing voice said, “I’m happy for you, ma’am.”

“Chloe…” A whisper, no more. “Are you there, Mouse?”

“Daddy!”

It wasn’t his voice at all. It was supposed to grow more lifelike with time, but usually didn’t. People just forgot how the real one sounded.

“Come close, Mouse.”

The techs emerged. One of them threw a smirk in my direction before drifting off. Randy took a step toward me but then paused, held by the sound coming from inside the room.

It was a low, animal whimper, harsh and rhythmic. I had heard it once before, in the hallway of the old house after Mom’s funeral.

I pushed past Randy. The counselor’s smile had gone sickly. Chloe was crouched next to the memory box, her quivering back turned toward me.

“…It’s no good, baby. These things adjust, they adapt to what the owner wants. And what you want would destroy you. I can’t leave you in that trap, Mouse. Try to understand.”

Chloe’s keening drowned out the rest. A few more soft words, something about how Alex and Rhea would help her. She finally went silent, her shoulders shaking from the effort.

“Tell me good-bye, Mouse.”

“G-g-g-bye.” She rose and turned to me, sobbing openly now.

It took me a few seconds to understand what she was saying. “It’s not… not…”

“No, Mouse,” I told her. “It’s not him.”

She left the room, arms out as if to steady herself. I moved after her.

“Alex?”

I halted, drowning in the same selfdisgust I’d felt all those years ago, after I’d betrayed his little girl. I forced myself to turn back. “Yes, Dad.”

“Ah, I don’t have to tell you.”

“Yeah, you do.”

“No—I never did. Just be kind to her, that’s all. I should have done better by her, but I never knew how.”

Nor do I, I thought.

“Remember one thing: nothing worth doing—”

“Is ever easy,” I finished for him.

“Right.” There was a long pause. “Good-bye, son. Kiss Rhea for me.”

“Godspeed, Dad.”

The machine’s telltales spasmed and went dead. I stood over it, at that moment understanding what Chloe felt, wanting to ask, do you remember my first day at the office; the time that hitter came looking for me because his car wouldn’t obey; watching the stars as the Big Fear roiled and eddied around us?

In the hall Chloe was leaning against Randy. I lifted my hand. He caught my meaning—he nodded as he led her away.

“Uh… Mr. Markham,” a smooth voice said. “There are occasional problems with the procedure, you understand. But we’d be more than willing to—”

“Get out.” I nudged the box with my foot. “Take this with you.”

The shadow vanished and we were alone. I went to the bed and took the old and weightless hand. I saw him off, thinking of all that he’d accomplished, all that he’d left undone, all that I’d have to do for him.

The readouts reddened and dimmed. The breathing faded, and grew terrible, and then ceased. After a time the nurses came, and I left to find my sister.

Content

Our Share of Darkness
by J.R. Dunn