Are You There and Other Stories (18 page)

And he was lost.

He couldn’t see the sky. The trees towered around him, ancient and solemn. There was not a breath of wind. Darby’s own breath rasped in his throat. He tried to blunder back the way he’d come, but he didn’t know what way that was. He kept falling. His shoes chaffed raw blisters through his thin businessman’s socks. Somewhere, he’d lost his watch. He sat panting on the ground.

“It’s all right,” the voice of a young boy said. “Don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying.” But he was.

“I know the way out. But you have to take me with you.”

Darby didn’t say anything.

“This is the last chance,” the boy said. “Please.”

“I—”

“Go ahead,” the boy said.

“I’m scared,” Darby said, his voice shaky, and he began to sob without restraint.

After a while he looked up, and he was alone. I’ve always been alone, he thought. He started walking again, but calmly, without panic. After a while he saw a pair of hikers with daypacks and walking sticks, and he angled toward them and picked up the trail, and just as easily as that, he was on his way back to the parking area.

In the limo, speeding along with the trees flashing by his window, Darby began to smile a little.

“I don’t think there ever were any shadows,” he said.

“Sir?” The driver flicked his gaze to the rear-view mirror.

“What’s your name, driver?” Darby asked, suddenly interested.

“Thomas,” the driver said. “Tom.”

“Well, Tom, thanks for driving me around today.”

The driver nodded. “You’re welcome, sir.”

*

Note: This is one of the older stories in the book. It bounced around for years, gathering almost-but-not-quite-there rejection slips and personal notes from editors, including the gang at the 1990s
Weird Tales
. Then one day, talking to my therapist, I was struck by an insight! I went home, rewrote the story, and almost immediately sold it to the Canadian magazine
On Spec
. Mostly what I rewrote was the ending. In the original version Darby never does accept his rejected “weaker” self. He just marches back out to the limo, snaps at the driver, and returns to New York. Somehow, it was that earlier version that wound up in the Golden Gryphon version of this collection. By the time I noticed the mistake, it was too late to fix it. Did the slightly more upbeat ending make it a saleable story, or did it simply find the right market at last? Good question.

Free Dog

T
ravis Larson sat in a red leather chair in his attorney’s office. Cory the toy poodle curled in his lap, and Larson petted her fluffy gray head. “There must be something we can do,” he said.

The attorney, whose name was Beverman, replied, “She is within her rights.”

“But Cory is
my
dog. The settlement explicitly states that I keep her.”

“And so you have.”

“I don’t want Kristine to have a copy.”

“Honestly, Travis, there isn’t anything we can do about that.” He moved his finger in the air and Larson’s divorce settlement appeared. The lawyer swept virtual pages aside with little flicks of his hand. “There is nothing in your agreement pertaining to Information Transubstantiation. If your former wife wishes to own a copy of your dog, she has every right to do so.”

“But—”

“Look, I understand your feelings. IT caught us all a little by surprise. But you can comfort yourself with the knowledge that you own the first, the original, Corky.”

“Cory,” Larson said.

“Of course. Cory. I’m sorry.”

“Let me show you something,” Larson said.

The attorney closed the divorce file, grabbing the projection out of the air and vanishing it in his first. “If you could make it brief; I have a meeting in five minutes.”

Larson set Cory on the floor. The dog sat attentively, staring at Larson. There was adoration in the poodle’s eyes.

“Up!” Larson commanded, brightly.

Cory jumped up on hind legs. “Round and round and round!” Larson said, his voice high and skirting some mock-maniacal precipice.

Cory danced around in a circle—a canine ballerina on pointe. Around and around and around, his little fluffy ears a quarter turn behind the rest of him.

Beverman nodded and smiled tightly, checking his watch. “Yes, that’s very, uh, delightful.”

“I know it’s delightful,” Larson said. “And I know you’ve seen it. But you haven’t
seen
it. I taught her that trick and a lot of others. You know, when I was a kid I never had a dog of my own. My sister got a dog, but I didn’t.”

Beverman stood up. “Well, as I said—”

“Cory is
my
dog,” Larson said. “I taught him things. I walk him every day. He sits with me when I read or watch TV. I feed him treats. He loves me. Do you think Kristine did anything for Cory? Do you think she even bothered to fill his water bowl?”

“I wouldn’t—”

“Trust me. She didn’t. She didn’t
care
about Cory. She information-ized him for exactly one reason—to hurt me.”

Beverman came around the desk and put a fatherly hand on Larson’s shoulder. “I’ve known you a long time, Travis, and I like to think of myself as something more than your legal advisor. I like to think of myself as your friend.”

Cory pawed at Larson’s leg. He scooped the dog up and held him against his chest. Cory growled at Beverman, who patted Larson’s shoulder and backed off a step. “And
as
your friend,” he said, “I advise you to let this go. Your divorce does not enjoin Kristine from owning a copy of your dog. And, frankly, even if such language existed, the propagation of an already information-ized poodle is impossible to halt. You simply have to accept the reality: Information is free.”

Larson grunted. Cory, perhaps sensing his distress, started to whine.

*

A week later Larson was sitting in Central Park on his lunch-break, eating a tuna salad sandwich. It was a pleasant spring afternoon, the sky soft and blue and blameless. People wandered the park in shirt sleeves, many walking dogs. Larson was getting over it. He had mostly put IT out of his mind. Then he heard a man’s voice say, “Round and round and round!”

Larson turned sharply. A bald man in a business suit stood on the grass not thirty yards from Larson’s bench. Larson recognized him. It was DeVris. He and Larson worked for the same investment firm. DeVris clapped his hands and laughed. Before him a toy poodle danced around in a circle on hind legs, floppy ears a quarter turn behind the rest of him.

Around and around and around.

Larson’s hand closed into a fist, squirting tuna salad between his fingers. He flung the mess away, jumped up and stalked over to DeVris, wiping his hand on a paper towel.

“Travis,” DeVris said. “Look at my—”

“Where did you get that copy?”

“Isn’t he adorable? His name’s Corky.”

“His name is
not
Corky.”

“Excuse me?’

“Did my ex-wife put you up to this?”

“I—No, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Kristine didn’t give you a copy of
‘Corky’
?” Larson sneered the misnomer out like a bad taste in his mouth.

“Honestly, Travis, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Corky was a free download.”

“
Free download
.”

DeVris backed away nervously. ‘Corky’ continued to dance around and around and around until DeVris waved his hand and the cheap nanoswarm that comprised the perfect 3D rendering twinkled out.

“For God’s sake, Travis. If you want a Corky you can get one of your own. He’s all over the web.”

“Thanks. I already have one. And his name isn’t Corky!”

*

At home, Larson called his attorney but got Beverman’s avatar instead. On his phone’s Projektrix he couldn’t immediately determine what competency level the avatar occupied. They all looked like the real thing.

“Kristine has set her Cory rip-off loose and it’s gone viral. Now we
have
to do something. Do you have any idea how many ‘Corky’s’ I saw just coming home from the office?”

“No, but I know I am currently unavailable for anything but an absolute emergency.”

Larson closed his eyes. Competency level: zilch.

“This
is
an emergency,” he shouted at the nanorendering of the zilch competency avatar standing on his coffee table.

“I’d be happy to file the details of your message and present them to myself at my earliest possible convenience. Simply state—”

Larson slapped his hand down on the coffee table, scattering the nanoswarm like glittery dust.

Cory the poodle—the real Cory—whined and licked Larson’s hand. Larson picked the dog up into his lap and petted him. You couldn’t do
that
with a nanoswarm copy.

*

Larson called his ex and asked her to meet him for lunch. She was an attorney, working corporate cases for a major Manhattan firm. She didn’t like being called at the office.

“I’m busy. Why should I meet you for lunch?” she asked.

“Because I want to talk to you about something.”

“We’re talking right now.”

“I mean in person.”

“But why?”

“Because I
want to
. Jesus, does it have to be so complicated?”

“Don’t shout at me.”

“I’m not shouting.”

“I don’t have to listen to you shout anymore, and I won’t listen to it.”

“I never shouted. At the most I raised my voice.”

“Well, don’t raise your voice to me.”

Larson took a deep breath. “I won’t. I’m sorry. I just want to talk to you about something that’s important to me, so I’d like to do it in person.”

“All right. Though I still don’t know why you can’t tell me on the phone. Anyway, my
person
will be at La Bistro at eleven on Monday.”

“Thanks. I’ll be there.”

*

The next day he dropped Cory off at the groomer’s and headed to La Bistro. The dog had seemed mororse, but maybe that was just Larson projecting his own mood onto the poodle.

When he arrived at La Bistro, Kristine was already sitting at one of the outdoor tables under the expected Cinzano umbrella. Even sitting, it was obvious she had put on weight—which surprised Larson. Kristine had always been compulsive about her workouts and staying trim. You could even say she was obsessive about it.

The waiter handed him a menu, which Larson ignored. “Thanks for coming,” he said to his ex.

She smiled. “You’re welcome, I suppose.”

“It’s about Cory.”

“Okay.”

“Cory is my dog. You agreed to that in the settlement.”

After a strange hesitation, during which her face went a little blank, Kristine replied, “I know perfectly well what I agreed to.”

“Well, you kept a copy.”

“So?”

“And now
anybody
can get a copy. Why did you do that?”

She didn’t seem to hear him, her face gone blank again, staring.

“Are you even listening to me?”

The pause continued another couple of seconds, then her face suddenly animated. “Of course I’m listening. You’re talking about the dog. I know you kept him in the settlement. I signed the document, didn’t I?”

“Then why did you cheat and keep a copy? You didn’t even like him when we were together.”

“Cheat. Interesting word choice. And of course I liked Cory. Otherwise why do you think I’d retain a copy? It’s been good having him around. I needed something good, after the divorce. Cory’s familiar. That’s been a small comfort, after all the changes. And no, I didn’t make him generally available. I sent a copy to my friend Twila and she put up the around and around thing as a sample. It caught on—you have to admit, Cory looks pretty cute doing that dance. The sample generated a demand for the full download. Twila asked me if it was okay, and I said of course it was. It’s not a big deal, Travis.”

“It’s a big deal to me.”

“Hmm. Hold on a second.”

“What?”

Her face went blank, then animated again. “Sorry. I’m here.”

“What’s going on with you? Wait a minute.” He reached across the table and touched her cheek. The tips of his fingers seemed to vanish into her skin to feel
other
skin.

“Hey—” she said in the wrong voice, pulling back so abruptly she almost tipped over backwards in her chair.

Larson stood up. “Who the hell are you?”

“She’s my person,” the Kristine face said. “My assistant. I told you I didn’t have time to leave the office. You never listen to me.”

“For God’s sake.”

“By the way, your whole attitude confirms my decision. The less direct contact the better.”

“I don’t have an attitude.”

“Of course you do. Your whole thing is an attitude.”

“What are you talking about? My whole thing isn’t an attitude. I don’t even know what that means. All I wanted was to have a human moment so I could explain why keeping Cory private was important to me. I thought we could do that. Evidentially I was wrong.”

“Drama.”

“And what the hell is up with the name ‘Corky?’ His name is
Cory
and always has been.”

“Twila changed it for the download. Out of deference to you, by the way.”

“It’s depressing seeing him all over town, answering to the wrong name. It just flattens me.”

“God, you and your gloom. Do you have any idea how
exhausting
your negative attitude can be?

“Uh, guys,” the assistant said, her voice, weirdly, coming from behind the Kristine face. “I’m a little uncomfortable with this, okay?”

Kristine said, “We’re nearly done, Vina. Travis? My parting advice, if you want it—”

“I don’t.”

“—is: get over it. Not just the dog, but all of it.”

“The
Corky
download is the only issue.”

“Then get over the Corky download. It’s a fad. Tomorrow it will be some other fad. I’m hanging up now. Goodbye.”

The face went blank again and then winked out, leaving a stranger’s slightly heavy but not unattractive features. “Hi, I’m Vina.”

“I suppose you think screwing around with me is funny.”

“No, I mean I didn’t think—”

“Right,” Larson said, his voice rising, “you didn’t think.” Vina stared at him, level-eyed, and Larson immediately felt like a fool. “I’m sorry. I guess I wanted to say that to Kristine.”

“That’s okay. She said you were a shouter.”

“I didn’t shout. I’m not a shouter. Did I shout?”

“Well, in this case it wasn’t a shout, per se.”

She smiled at him and picked up her menu. It was a lovely smile, like turning a warm light on her face. Larson lingered by the table.

“Are you really going to eat lunch?” he said.

Without looking up, Vina said. “Yes, I really am.”

“Do you mind, I mean what if I had lunch with you?”

“I don’t know . . .”

“Right. Dumb idea.” He started to leave.

“Wait. I don’t think there would be any harm in it, do you?” Now she was looking at him, and smiling that smile.

“No, I think it’s fine.” He sat back down. “I didn’t even know they could do that, I mean the thing with the superimposed head.”

“Oh, yeah, they can do it. The jector’s in my necklace. Look, do you really think this is all right?”

“I don’t know. It is if we want it to be.”

She seemed to consider that, then closed her menu. “I’m going to have the bouillabaisse.”

*

Beverman’s firm was only a few blocks from Larson’s midtown office. He walked over the next day, without an appointment. In the outer office a young clean-cut man named Frenkle told him he could expect to wait half an hour before Beverman would be available. “Unless you’d prefer to make an appointment. . .”

“I’ll wait.” Larson installed himself in a chair, tabbed into
Business Week
magazine and began turning virtual pages, his mind and eyes skimming lightly over an article about the new Chinese ascendancy in commercial aviation.

“Good boy,” Frenkle said in a quiet voice.

Larson looked up. Turned aside from his desk and bent forward in his chair, Frenkle was making little petting motions in the air just above a downloaded ‘Corky’ poodle. Larson’s stomach muscles tightened. He closed the magazine. The virtual dog was looking at Frenkle with adoration.

“Isn’t that frustrating,” Larson said.

“Isn’t what frustrating?” Frenkle said.

“Pretending to pet a dog that isn’t there.”

“Corky’s there. I can’t touch him, but it’s easy to imagine what it would feel like. I used to have a live dog. And Corky reacts just as if I
were
petting him. Honestly, I never thought a virtual dog could be such wonderful company.”

“Yeah, who would have thought it?”