Read Online Asimov's Science Fiction: February 2014 by Penny Publications - Free Book Online
Authors: Penny Publications
Tags: Asimov's #457
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attorney?" Oxford asked. He didn't care much for attorneys.
"No, no," she said. "I'm not an attorney."
A psychiatrist, then. Oxford cared for shrinks even less. "I'm not crazy," he said. "Can I go now?"
"It's the law, Mr. Brown." The woman seemed to turn up the smug factor on her smile. "As of last month, AftrLyf is required to provide you with a clear explanation of your options."
"What's to explain?" Oxford asked. "I die. You put my brain in a blender, plug it into the network, and I get to see me wife again. Right?"
The word "blender" seemed to unsettle her. Good. He was getting tired of her cool, synthetic calm. Oxford prided himself on being able to flap the unflappable.
"Mr. Brown," she said, "I'm here to make you aware of the alternatives."
"Alternatives? What alternatives?"
She folded her hands on the desk in front of her and steepled her fingers. "Are you a religious man, Mr. Brown?"
If he'd been thirty years younger, he'd have shot to his feet. He settled for leaning forward and frowning. "Heaven?
That's
your alternative?"
"AftrLyf is unnatural, Mr. Brown. You should know that it could keep you from reaching the
real
afterlife."
"You don't work for the company, do you?"
"Certainly
not,
" she said. "I'm with the Interfaith Council on—" "And this isn't mandatory."
"I told you, the law requires AftrLyf to—"
"Forget it!" Oxford finally made it to his feet. "My wife is in AftrLyf's system. She has been for three years now, and she'll be there when I arrive. Can you guarantee the same for your—
alternative?
"
"As you say, Mr. Brown, your wife is in AftrLyf's system."
"And God hates competition. I get it." Oxford leaned on the desk, staring down at her. "He sounds like a vindictive bastard."
She began to tremble and her knuckles turned white. For a moment, Oxford thought she was going to hit him, but instead she snatched a clipboard from the edge of the desk and slapped it down between his hands.
"Sign this," she said. "It states that you've refused counseling."
Oh, yes. He'd definitely flapped her.
The night Oxford died, he was sitting quietly in his living room, letting the gloom and the past envelope him. So many evenings he and Emily had spent there, he in his chair, she in hers. They'd read, sipping tea, marking the hours with bookmarks and teaspoons, wrapped in the silence that only two people truly comfortable with each other could share. Theirs had never been a passionate relationship, but it hadn't been unhappy, either. He'd devoted himself to making her happy more than fifty years earlier, ever since that one time in college, when he'd violated her trust completely.
She'd wanted him to do it, though. He'd always been certain of that. Why else would she have left him alone in her dorm room, with her private journal just sitting there in the half-open nightstand drawer?
"Had that dream again last night," he'd read. "Sexy! Hands on me. Lips on mine." Embarrassed, he'd almost stopped reading there, but couldn't. "I hate this! It hurts knowing O thinks of me as just another pal in the Pizza and Beer Club. Hurts when we're together. Hurts when we're apart. I'm such a coward! Why can't I just say something? Maybe I just don't deserve to be loved."
That's when he'd put it back in the drawer, careful to slide the Dickinson collection back on top of it at just the right angle. When she came back, he began watching her more carefully. He studied her the rest of that night as they joined the gang at their favorite off-campus haunt. How could he have missed how sweet her quick, little smile was, or how smoothly she navigated any conversation? By the end of the night, he'd silently vowed to devote his life to making her happy.
Now, sitting alone in the living room they used to share, he congratulated himself on keeping that vow. He took his nightly pills that AftrLyf had given him and relaxed into the short burst of memory they always caused. The doctors had said something about electrochemical
"No, no," she said. "I'm not an attorney."
A psychiatrist, then. Oxford cared for shrinks even less. "I'm not crazy," he said. "Can I go now?"
"It's the law, Mr. Brown." The woman seemed to turn up the smug factor on her smile. "As of last month, AftrLyf is required to provide you with a clear explanation of your options."
"What's to explain?" Oxford asked. "I die. You put my brain in a blender, plug it into the network, and I get to see me wife again. Right?"
The word "blender" seemed to unsettle her. Good. He was getting tired of her cool, synthetic calm. Oxford prided himself on being able to flap the unflappable.
"Mr. Brown," she said, "I'm here to make you aware of the alternatives."
"Alternatives? What alternatives?"
She folded her hands on the desk in front of her and steepled her fingers. "Are you a religious man, Mr. Brown?"
If he'd been thirty years younger, he'd have shot to his feet. He settled for leaning forward and frowning. "Heaven?
That's
your alternative?"
"AftrLyf is unnatural, Mr. Brown. You should know that it could keep you from reaching the
real
afterlife."
"You don't work for the company, do you?"
"Certainly
not,
" she said. "I'm with the Interfaith Council on—" "And this isn't mandatory."
"I told you, the law requires AftrLyf to—"
"Forget it!" Oxford finally made it to his feet. "My wife is in AftrLyf's system. She has been for three years now, and she'll be there when I arrive. Can you guarantee the same for your—
alternative?
"
"As you say, Mr. Brown, your wife is in AftrLyf's system."
"And God hates competition. I get it." Oxford leaned on the desk, staring down at her. "He sounds like a vindictive bastard."
She began to tremble and her knuckles turned white. For a moment, Oxford thought she was going to hit him, but instead she snatched a clipboard from the edge of the desk and slapped it down between his hands.
"Sign this," she said. "It states that you've refused counseling."
Oh, yes. He'd definitely flapped her.
The night Oxford died, he was sitting quietly in his living room, letting the gloom and the past envelope him. So many evenings he and Emily had spent there, he in his chair, she in hers. They'd read, sipping tea, marking the hours with bookmarks and teaspoons, wrapped in the silence that only two people truly comfortable with each other could share. Theirs had never been a passionate relationship, but it hadn't been unhappy, either. He'd devoted himself to making her happy more than fifty years earlier, ever since that one time in college, when he'd violated her trust completely.
She'd wanted him to do it, though. He'd always been certain of that. Why else would she have left him alone in her dorm room, with her private journal just sitting there in the half-open nightstand drawer?
"Had that dream again last night," he'd read. "Sexy! Hands on me. Lips on mine." Embarrassed, he'd almost stopped reading there, but couldn't. "I hate this! It hurts knowing O thinks of me as just another pal in the Pizza and Beer Club. Hurts when we're together. Hurts when we're apart. I'm such a coward! Why can't I just say something? Maybe I just don't deserve to be loved."
That's when he'd put it back in the drawer, careful to slide the Dickinson collection back on top of it at just the right angle. When she came back, he began watching her more carefully. He studied her the rest of that night as they joined the gang at their favorite off-campus haunt. How could he have missed how sweet her quick, little smile was, or how smoothly she navigated any conversation? By the end of the night, he'd silently vowed to devote his life to making her happy.
Now, sitting alone in the living room they used to share, he congratulated himself on keeping that vow. He took his nightly pills that AftrLyf had given him and relaxed into the short burst of memory they always caused. The doctors had said something about electrochemical
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