Everything froze. Matt stared at the asteroid, at the crevices and craters and ridge lines and the bleak cold rock. All slowly turning. And growing. “Laura,” he said. “Get the hell away from it. What are you doing?”
“No choice,” Laura said. “I just don’t know—”
“Laura.” Judy all but strangled the mike. “It’s still too high. It’s not going to hit anything. Get away from it.”
“Laura,” he said, “answer up. Do you hear us?”
“Damn the torpedoes,” Laura said. “Oh, I forgot. I don’t have any torpedoes.”
They were both screaming at her when the display went blank. “What happened?” said Matt. “What the hell did she do?”
Judy was staring at the screen. “I think she crashed the goddamn thing.”
Matt went to full mag, seized the monitor, and shook it. “Come on, damn you.”
It stayed blank.
“She’s gone,” said Judy.
“No no no.” Matt banged his fist on the chair arm. “No! Please, God, no.”
For a long time no one spoke. Matt trained the telescope on the asteroid and they watched as it continued on its vector. And there was the Cernan, crumpled, falling away.
Air moved through the vents. Judy was silent for a long time. Then: “It’s changed course. Not much. But a little.”
“Laura.” Matt called out her name. “Laura, are you there? Please—”
Judy put her hand on his arm. “Matt.”
He was having a hard time breathing. “Is it going to miss?”
She extended the asteroid vector line toward the blue globe representing Earth. It came close but passed well outside the atmosphere. “Yes. Not by much. But it will miss.”
“Judy, did she do that? Push it aside?”
A second vector line appeared, paralleling the first. It was slightly closer to the globe, but still a miss. “No,” she said. “This is where it would have gone. Whatever she did, it made no significant difference.”
The radio beeped. Transmission from Houston. They ignored it. “She had no way to know whether it would hit or not,” said Matt.
“That’s not true.” Judy took a deep breath. “She had the same information we did. Except she had it a few seconds earlier. She had to know it would miss. She panicked. Or she just got too close—”
Matt shook his head, fighting back tears. “I can’t see her panicking. She said something about once it got past—”
Judy’s eyes darkened. “She intended all along to ram the thing if she had to.”
“Not if she had to,” said Matt. “I think she made up her mind to do it no matter what.”
“That can’t be right. Remember? She said how we were running out of time to make a call.”
“Judy, that was for the media. She knew everything she said would show up on Clive Thomas. That comment was for the voters.”
“I don’t get it,” said Judy.
Matt stared at the asteroid. He hated the thing with a venom unlike any emotion he’d felt in his life. “Have we relayed any of this to Houston yet?”
“No. Why?”
“We might have to make some adjustments.” He took a deep breath. “Nobody except us knows the rock would have missed regardless of what she did.”
“What are you saying?” demanded Judy.
He closed his eyes and watched Laura charging across the outfield. “Judy, she’s handed us a cathedral.”
THE LAST DANCE
“Olivia,” I said, “are you really there?” It had been a year and a half since that terrible evening when she’d started home from the hospital where she served as a nurse. She’d gone just two blocks when the tractor-trailer rear-ended her. Left her dead on the scene.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m back. Modern technology is something else, isn’t it, Ethan? It’s good to see you again.”
We were in the den, both on our feet. She was standing in front of her favorite armchair, the electric one that allowed her to lower the back and sleep in it. A photograph from our wedding was mounted on the wall directly behind it, and pictures of our daughter Sarah, my mom, and her parents stood atop a bookcase. Outside, a soft rain fell into the trees. I couldn’t stop staring at her. I knew exactly what was happening, but nevertheless it came as a shock. Behind me, the guy from Celestial Communications asked if she was okay?
“Yes,” I said. “She’s incredible.”
He was short and overweight. I forget his name. He handed me a copy of the contract. “The system will do an ongoing analysis of conditions in the household and will respond accordingly.” He smiled. “You might even come down some morning and find yourself waiting to give you some advice.”
“Myself? You can really do that?”
“Well, it doesn’t happen often. But yes, sometimes it’s necessary. Some people need to hear truth from themselves.” He produced the bill. It was higher than I could really afford, but I’d manage. Having Olivia back was priceless. I looked back at her. She was still watching me. Smiling in that warm, inviting way that I had thought I’d lost forever. “Give me a second, love. I’ll just be a minute.” I sat down at the coffee table and wrote a check.
When I returned to the den, she’d settled into the chair and was sitting with her eyes closed. “I could almost believe you’re her,” I said.
The eyes opened, blue and soft in the light of the single lamp. “I am her, Ethan. I’m Olivia in every way that matters.”
“Except physical.”
“I’m sorry about that. I really am. Not much we can do about it. Not yet anyway. I understand the technology is coming.” It was her voice. And the tenderness it conveyed was all too familiar. “I’m sorry about what happened.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” I said.
“He was too close behind me. I should have realized. Shouldn’t have tried to stop at the light.”
I wanted to go to her, embrace her, hold onto her. In another time she’d have thrown herself into my arms. Instead we reached out cautiously to each other, until our fingertips would have touched. But they couldn’t. Her physical self was no longer there. Nevertheless, according to Celestial, it was Olivia who sat smiling at me. She had her memories and her personality, her habits and her passions, to the extent they’d been able to extract them from MyPage. And from me. And from whatever other sources had been available. However they’d done it, they’d constructed a perfect replica.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know this isn’t easy for you. It isn’t easy for either of us.”
“Olivia, I’ve never been able to accept that you’re gone.”
“I’m not gone, Ethan. I’m here. If you can hold onto that reality, life will become much easier for you.”
“What about Sarah?” The sales people had assured me that accepting the avatar wouldn’t be a problem for our eight-year-old daughter. That she would adjust. It will take some time, they’d said, but she’ll be okay.
“She’ll be fine. You and she are the only things in my life that matter.”
I tried to tell her that I was grateful she was there, but I couldn’t help recalling that final goodbye at the cemetery. I wanted to say something, God knows what, but my voice broke.
She waited while I pulled myself together. Then: “I understand, Ethan. Be aware that I’m an almost perfect match. And if it helps, I love you. As she did.”
“I love you too, Olivia.” I meant it. Somehow. I understood the reality, that I was talking to software. But for the moment, it didn’t matter. We were together again, at home, after nineteen painful months.