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GRIM
He should have grown accustomed to death by now: he had stared this total cessation of function in the face twice, but when it came to the home he had known for the past thirty-five years, it came like a bolt of lightning from a clear blue sky.
June had "retired" from Unity about ten years before, when a viral infection had weakened her heart. She rarely left the house, except for short periods of time. But Ben kept up his painting, which brought her a comfortable living; Gilbert Flint's son Andrew, who had inherited his father's job on the elder Flint's passing, had found him a place as a portrait painter, which brought in a steady income, as well as providing a springboard for selling his other works. Aside from occasional maintenance, his physical needs amounted to very little.
She had "aged" much since her illness. Her beauty had given way to entropy, but he could still see traces of it, especially in her eyes. He tended her carefully, with a devotion not often seen among the young who care for the old. After all, he had been built to console her after the death of her husband.
She'd toyed with the thought of having his appearance altered to narrow the age gap, at least add a few gray hairs to his temples, but she decided she didn't want him any other way. Besides, it was amusing to think of how they looked together: an older woman in her seventies and her youthful consort who looked as if he were barely out of his twenties.
She told him she might not have long to live. She had expected him to brush it aside, but he did not. He seemed resigned to the fact; perhaps his experience, passing through the trials of grit called a testing plant was enough to teach him about death.
She often felt very tired and their embraces came less often, which made them all the more precious. The most she could muster at night was gentle cuddling, but he knew how to accommodate.
At times she thought of her late husband. Would she meet the first Ben Mason again in the afterlife? Would he know of what she had done? Would knowing she had built a replica of him anger him? She hoped he could understand why she had done so.
Then, one morning, out of the blue, after he had brought her breakfast to her, Ben asked her a question she never expected from him.
"Do you have any regrets that you have no child?"
She looked at him as he sat on the foot of the bed cross-legged, clad in the plain gray shirt and black trousers he wore when he had work to do. "There was a time when I did," she admitted. "My late husband and I couldn't get a license; we both carried a faulty gene that could turn deadly to our child. I didn't want a donor embryo; if I was going to have a child, I wanted it to be his."
"Were there not all these impediments, would you have wanted a child?"
"Yes, it didn't matter if it was a boy or a girl, as long as the little one was healthy and happy. I used to dream about having a son as sweet and sensitive as his dad, or a daughter as smart and strong as me; either way, I'd see the little one with his eyes and my complexion. I just hope they didn't end up with my teeth."
"Why not?"
"They grew in crooked and I had to have braces for years. But let me ask you this: would you like to be a father?"
He put his head on one side in thought for a long moment. "I think it would be easy for me to adjust to such a role." She wondered if he had recalled the little one who had unwittingly helped him develop, who had saved his brain twice and so bought her the time she needed to bring him back.
That afternoon, he started another painting, which gradually took on the image of himself holding Sam protectingly. He even moved her to the divan in his studio so she could watch. She read and rested through much of the afternoon.
She'd known some couples who had had "Sam" models, and the temptation to acquire one had offered itself to her; she broached the question to Ben.
"Can I ask you something?" she ventured, when he had paused to clean his brushes.
He looked at her over his shoulder. "Of course you may."
"I was just thinking, maybe I should adopt one of Cybertronics' child-Mechas."
"Perhaps it is too late for you to do so. At this time, he would seem more like your grandchild."
"I hadn't thought of that." He was right, darn it. A Sam would be more like his child than hers; some people had already accused her of having a Jocasta complex: Ben, in a manner of speaking, was her creative offspring, even if she had modeled him after her late husband.
"But if you were thinking that the presence of such a Mecha would console me, I am afraid it would not be the same: he would not be the Sam whom I have known."
"Of course, he'd have different conditioning. But I wonder what would happen if you imprinted one?"
He wagged his head slowly, in a Xn gesture of indecision he had adopted after so long. "Perhaps it could work, but perhaps, on the other hand, it might not work. The only way to discover the answer to this question is to attempt this gesture. But what if it does not work? What then? What of the Mecha?"
"You've learned from the mistakes of Xns."
He smiled. "Perhaps I have learned better than they have, because I possess the objectivity of another species."
The golden autumn day passed into evening. She found the energy to get up and cook her supper, but he gladly helped her. He told her about a new commission Andrew had found for him, painting a portrait of a client's dog.
After supper, he helped her out onto the deck, where she loved to watch the sun set, she sitting on a chaise lounge, he sitting on the decking beside her, where she could reach out and stroke his hair or take his head into her lap.
She noted that it grew colder sooner that night than it had all season: a frost would set in by dawn she guessed. He brought her inside before it grew dark and the evening damp started to set in. He helped her take a bath and got her ready for bed.
She complained of feeling "cold", so he obliged by raising his skin temperature slightly as he held her all through the night.
Just at daybreak, he felt her twitch awake. She gasped and clutched at her chest. He could feel her heart hammering, too fast, much too fast.
"June, dearest, what is it?"
"Oh god! My heart!"
He leapt from the bed and ran for the phone as she had instructed him to in case this happened.
GRIM
He should have grown accustomed to death by now: he had stared this total cessation of function in the face twice, but when it came to the home he had known for the past thirty-five years, it came like a bolt of lightning from a clear blue sky.
June had "retired" from Unity about ten years before, when a viral infection had weakened her heart. She rarely left the house, except for short periods of time. But Ben kept up his painting, which brought her a comfortable living; Gilbert Flint's son Andrew, who had inherited his father's job on the elder Flint's passing, had found him a place as a portrait painter, which brought in a steady income, as well as providing a springboard for selling his other works. Aside from occasional maintenance, his physical needs amounted to very little.
She had "aged" much since her illness. Her beauty had given way to entropy, but he could still see traces of it, especially in her eyes. He tended her carefully, with a devotion not often seen among the young who care for the old. After all, he had been built to console her after the death of her husband.
She'd toyed with the thought of having his appearance altered to narrow the age gap, at least add a few gray hairs to his temples, but she decided she didn't want him any other way. Besides, it was amusing to think of how they looked together: an older woman in her seventies and her youthful consort who looked as if he were barely out of his twenties.
She told him she might not have long to live. She had expected him to brush it aside, but he did not. He seemed resigned to the fact; perhaps his experience, passing through the trials of grit called a testing plant was enough to teach him about death.
She often felt very tired and their embraces came less often, which made them all the more precious. The most she could muster at night was gentle cuddling, but he knew how to accommodate.
At times she thought of her late husband. Would she meet the first Ben Mason again in the afterlife? Would he know of what she had done? Would knowing she had built a replica of him anger him? She hoped he could understand why she had done so.
Then, one morning, out of the blue, after he had brought her breakfast to her, Ben asked her a question she never expected from him.
"Do you have any regrets that you have no child?"
She looked at him as he sat on the foot of the bed cross-legged, clad in the plain gray shirt and black trousers he wore when he had work to do. "There was a time when I did," she admitted. "My late husband and I couldn't get a license; we both carried a faulty gene that could turn deadly to our child. I didn't want a donor embryo; if I was going to have a child, I wanted it to be his."
"Were there not all these impediments, would you have wanted a child?"
"Yes, it didn't matter if it was a boy or a girl, as long as the little one was healthy and happy. I used to dream about having a son as sweet and sensitive as his dad, or a daughter as smart and strong as me; either way, I'd see the little one with his eyes and my complexion. I just hope they didn't end up with my teeth."
"Why not?"
"They grew in crooked and I had to have braces for years. But let me ask you this: would you like to be a father?"
He put his head on one side in thought for a long moment. "I think it would be easy for me to adjust to such a role." She wondered if he had recalled the little one who had unwittingly helped him develop, who had saved his brain twice and so bought her the time she needed to bring him back.
That afternoon, he started another painting, which gradually took on the image of himself holding Sam protectingly. He even moved her to the divan in his studio so she could watch. She read and rested through much of the afternoon.
She'd known some couples who had had "Sam" models, and the temptation to acquire one had offered itself to her; she broached the question to Ben.
"Can I ask you something?" she ventured, when he had paused to clean his brushes.
He looked at her over his shoulder. "Of course you may."
"I was just thinking, maybe I should adopt one of Cybertronics' child-Mechas."
"Perhaps it is too late for you to do so. At this time, he would seem more like your grandchild."
"I hadn't thought of that." He was right, darn it. A Sam would be more like his child than hers; some people had already accused her of having a Jocasta complex: Ben, in a manner of speaking, was her creative offspring, even if she had modeled him after her late husband.
"But if you were thinking that the presence of such a Mecha would console me, I am afraid it would not be the same: he would not be the Sam whom I have known."
"Of course, he'd have different conditioning. But I wonder what would happen if you imprinted one?"
He wagged his head slowly, in a Xn gesture of indecision he had adopted after so long. "Perhaps it could work, but perhaps, on the other hand, it might not work. The only way to discover the answer to this question is to attempt this gesture. But what if it does not work? What then? What of the Mecha?"
"You've learned from the mistakes of Xns."
He smiled. "Perhaps I have learned better than they have, because I possess the objectivity of another species."
The golden autumn day passed into evening. She found the energy to get up and cook her supper, but he gladly helped her. He told her about a new commission Andrew had found for him, painting a portrait of a client's dog.
After supper, he helped her out onto the deck, where she loved to watch the sun set, she sitting on a chaise lounge, he sitting on the decking beside her, where she could reach out and stroke his hair or take his head into her lap.
She noted that it grew colder sooner that night than it had all season: a frost would set in by dawn she guessed. He brought her inside before it grew dark and the evening damp started to set in. He helped her take a bath and got her ready for bed.
She complained of feeling "cold", so he obliged by raising his skin temperature slightly as he held her all through the night.
Just at daybreak, he felt her twitch awake. She gasped and clutched at her chest. He could feel her heart hammering, too fast, much too fast.
"June, dearest, what is it?"
"Oh god! My heart!"
He leapt from the bed and ran for the phone as she had instructed him to in case this happened.