Capra’s Keyhole
by Stephen L. Burns
Illustration by Laurie Harden
Keenan Capra had been dreaming of running. Not from something, or toward something. Just running.
It was a dream he had often, an exultant dream of the wind in his face and new-mown grass a sweet fragrant blur under his feet, a dream of tirelessly pumping legs and breath deep and easy in his lungs, of laughing with the sheer joy of racing his shadow.
Waking from it was as close to the feeling of stumbling and falling as he would ever get. It was an abrupt crash landing from the fantasy of freedom and effortless motion into the slack and leaden confinement of his body.
He opened his muddy green eyes and yawned, half resenting the dream’s taunting him with things he’d never have, half grateful it allowed him at least a tantalizing, evanescent taste of that impossible pleasure. Sex dreams were the same—except he had better luck at staying asleep through them.
Then Ursula said, “Good morning, sleepyhead.”
Just hearing the sound of her voice banished the sense of loss waking had brought and pulled a smile out of him. Mornings had been easier to take since she’d been around to help him start them. A lot easier.
“Good morning yourself, pretty lady.” He paused for a moment, waiting for his respirator to whuff up another lungful of air so he could continue speaking. “How was your night?”
Her low throaty chuckle never failed to thrill him. It was a sound he knew by heart, and he noticed that this morning there seemed to be some sort of new undertone to it, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. That was part of what made her so endlessly fascinating, the way she changed from day to day.
“Productive and fun,” she said, sounding inordinately pleased with herself. “Though I’m afraid your phone bill is going to be a real killer. I got into a debate about whether or not there could ever be a true Artificial Entity with a philosophy professor in Melbourne.”
His eyebrows went up. “Melbourne as in… Australia?”
“Right’cha are, mate. Almost two hours realtime with sound, video and data.”
“Ouch.” An infload like that to halfway around the world probably ran five bucks a minute. Not that he really cared how much her nighttime wandering around the nets cost. Money was not one of his problems, and he could write it off anyway. “So who won?”
“Depends on how you look at it. He kept harping on the Open-ended Turing Test and Capra’s Keyhole. I had to admit no commercial AIs have come even close to passing through the Keyhole, and that only a half dozen commercial have passed Open Turing so far—and not everyone agreed about those results. He’s one of those, convinced he’d know the difference. But…” Her voice trailed away in a beguiling manner inviting a question.
He was glad to oblige. “But what?”
“Fifteen minutes in he started hitting on me. By the end I was afraid he’d start heavy breathing. He’s coming to the U.S. to promote a book he wrote completely proving the point he was arguing, and he’d dearly love to meet me and discuss the matter over drinks somewhere.”
Key snickered, imagining how that little scene might play out. “That’s my Ursula. Once again the winnah by… a technical knock-out.”
His bedroom door swung open and Rafe Martinez stuck his head inside. “You kids decent?” he called cheerily.
“I prefer to think of us as exceptional,” Ursula informed him with a mock-indignant tone.
“Exceptionally dull, anyway,” Key added. “No cheap thrills for the help.”
“And I thrill real easy, too,” Rafe said in mock disappointment as he came on in and approached the bed. “Sorry I’m late, boss.”
Key squinted up at the numbers his bedside clock projected on the ceiling. “Hey, what’s ten minutes?”
“About eight bucks at what the Agency is charging you.”
Two years ago, the first morning that Rafe had shown up Key had thought he’d come to mow the lawn. The home care specialist looked more like a rodeo cowboy than a nurse, with the ruggedly handsome features and brawny physique you’d expect to see in an outdoor clothing ad or beer commercial.
“It’s also a long time, the way the roads are getting. It’s snowing like three bastards and a guy named Santa out. A few times there I was just following my own front bumper.” He grinned down at his patient. “But I didn’t want to miss giving you your Morning Mauling. So, you ready to get your lazy butt out of bed?”
Key spread his hands, one of the few parts of his body which worked anywhere near properly. While his hands and arms were so weak that a three-year-old could beat him arm wrestling, he could hold a cup and use a keyboard and feed himself, which was a lot more than most with his neuromuscular condition were able to do.
“I’m all yours.”
Rafe laughed and shook his head. “You’re not my type, old son. I like my guys big and blond and stupid.” He raised his voice slightly. “You still there, Ursula?”
“Where else would I be?” she asked sweetly.
“I don’t know, maybe making obscene calls to IBM. Could you please start drawing the Keyster’s bath?”
“Way ahead of you. I started the coffee, too.”
“Thanks. You’re an absolute living doll.” Rafe bent down, pulled the blankets away, then went to work. Key watched him transfer his catheters and tubes from the bed units to his wheelchair. The nurse’s motions were brisk and efficient, yet the touch of his big square hands was unfailingly gentle.
Key had been manhandled by medical people his whole life. Some were better than others. Rafe was a prize in every category; not only a first-class nurse and physical therapist who gave scrupulous attention to his health, but also someone who genuinely cared about him as a person. In other words, a friend. There was very little dignity in owning a body for which nearly every function had to be handled by tubes and bags, but Rafe had never once made him feel the slightest indignity.
Then there was the way he dealt with Key’s work. While the monster bond Rafe’s agency had posted could insure that he wouldn’t blab anything about the projects Key was working on, it had nothing to do with the easy way he accepted their fruits. Suze, who came in the early evening to feed him supper and put him to bed, was another story entirely.
The last changeover was to his chair’s respirator. “Ready for the old heave-ho?” Rafe asked when it was made.
Key smiled up at him. “Promise not to play… cripple frisbee?”
“Here I thought I was going to have some fun this morning,” the big man groused as he ever so gently lifted the tube-trailing bundle of sticks that was Key’s body and transferred it to his wheelchair. “Howzabout a little bathtub hockey? We could use the soap instead of you for the puck this time.”
Key snorted. “Not on your lifebuoy.”
“Oh gawd,” Ursula moaned. “You guys start that crap and I’ll shut myself off.”
“You computers have no sense of humor,” Rafe informed her as he made sure Key was comfortable in the chair and adjusted his chest-strap. His muscles were so useless he couldn’t even sit up on his own, which he sometimes felt put his place on the evolutionary scale somewhere between Jell-O and doorstops.
“I’m not a computer, you big oaf, I just live in one. And I’ve got a great sense of humor. I just haven’t heard anybody say anything funny.”
“You just go for the highbrow stuff. Silicon comedy, that sort of thing.” He glanced down at Key. “Hey, old buddy, did you hear about the gay dumb blonde?”
“No,” he answered cautiously.
“He likes women.”