Fiction

Get our top stories twice a month
Follow us on

A rendering of a female cyborg.

(© the_lightwriter/Fotolia)

Viv spent nearly an hour choosing her body.

She considered going as her eight year-old self. She would stand eye-to-eye with her father in his hospital bed, shedding tears and crying: please don't go, daddy. But that was too obvious. It would offend him.

He became data coursing through a network, able to embody any form, to outlive physical decay.

She considered her eighteen year-old self. She would lean over him, scrawny and tall, her lips trembling with anger: you're being selfish, dad. But that would lead to shouting.

She considered every form, even reviving people from the past: her mother, her grandfather, her little sister Mary. How would her father react to Mary walking in? He would think himself dead. She could whisper a message to him: Stay alive, dad. God commands it.

In the end, Viv chose the look of her last days as a biological person. Thirty-one years old, her auburn hair cut short, her black eyes full of longing. She watched the body print in silicon over robotic armature.

When it blinked to life, Viv stood in front of a mirror. Her face was appropriately somber, her mind in sync with her new muscles. Without thinking, she stretched her arms, arched her body, twirled on her tiptoes. She had forgotten the pleasure of sensation.

"I should do this…" The voice resonated through her. She could not help but smile. "I should do this more often… often… often." Every repetition thrilled her with sound. She began to sing an old favorite: "Times have changed… and we've often…"

But she stopped herself. This was not a day for singing.

Viv clothed her body in a blue dress, packed her tablet in a briefcase, stood in front of the mirror one last time. "I'll be there in five," she said aloud, though she did not need to.

A man's voice answered in her mind: I'm not coming.

"Gabe…"

There's no point, said the voice. We know what he'll say.

"We have to try."

I won't see him dying, Viv.

The clenching of her jaw felt like the old days. Her brother made a habit of last-minute decisions, without concern for how they affected other people, most often her.

She remembered the day he became an everperson. It was soon after their mother's death. They were supposed to visit their father in mourning, but Gabe disappeared without explanation. Viv took the full burden of solace on herself. She sat with her father in a small room, with an old Persian rug and stale furniture. His mustache was beginning to gray, his eyes beginning to wrinkle. "She's with your sister now," he said. "Your mom and Mary, I can…" He leaned in to whisper, "I can almost hear them, at night, laughing on the other side. They tell me to wait… they tell me to wait." Viv nodded for him, pretending to believe, wishing she could.

Gabe did not return her calls that evening. The next day, she began to worry. The day after, she began to look. He made no effort to hide, he simply neglected to tell her the new plan.

Gabe had taken the money from his inheritance, and booked himself an everence. It was something new back then. Viv did not understand the science, but she knew it was a destructive process. His physical brain was destroyed by lasers that scanned it neuron by neuron, creating a digital replica. He became data coursing through a network, able to embody any form, to outlive physical decay. He became an everperson.

It took three days to complete. Viv went to the facility, a converted warehouse by the Bay Bridge. She watched the new Gabe being printed over robotic armature, taking the form of his last biological self, to help with the transition. When he blinked to life, she did not know if he would be the same person, or an imperfect copy of an imperfect copy. But Gabe was totally oblivious to the pain he caused her by disappearing in that way. No robot, she thought, could be so callous.

When Viv made her own decision to everize, she deliberated for weeks, thinking through the consequences and conversations to come. Afterwards, she sat with her father in that same small room, with the Persian rug older, the furniture staler, a new cat purring at his feet.

"But it's suicide," he said.

"It's the opposite, dad. It's eternal life."

"You'd be a robot. You wouldn't be you."

"Gabe's the same as he ever was," she noted the resentment in her voice. "He's just not… physical, until he wants to be."

Her father exhaled an Arabic phrase he was using more often in his old age. La hawla wa la quwata illa billah. She had never learned his native tongue, but she looked up the phrase to understand him better. It meant something like: there is no power except in God. It was a sigh of resignation.

"Vivian," he said eventually, "Your soul is not your brain. Your soul lives on. If you kill yourself, you... it's unforgivable. Don't you want to see mom in heaven? Mary? Me?"

She wanted to believe. She wanted painfully. But when she spoke, it was barely a whisper. "I don't think that will happen, dad."

Fewer biological people meant little need for hospitals, or doctors. It would close soon.

It was the first she had ever confessed to him about God or Heaven. In as steady a voice as he could manage, her father said: "You're an adult, Viv. You do what you think is best."

She came to visit sometimes, as an everperson. He could not tell at first. But as the years went by, as his eyes wrinkled, and his hair grayed, he noticed that Viv never aged. One day he stopped talking to her. Another she stopped coming.

Now he was waiting out the last days of his life alone in a hospital bed. Viv did not want to say goodbye. It seemed such a waste.

You don't have to, Gabe spoke into her mind. Get him to sign, say anything, say it's for selling the house. Once we have full power of attorney, we can decide for him.

"It's not right." She noticed herself speaking aloud on the hoverbus. Nine nervous faces turned to her.

It's not right, she continued in her mind. Dad never forced us to pray, never forced us to —

That was mom.

But he loved her. He never changed her mind, he raised us to question, and he quietly believed. He has every right to live his way, just like we did.

To live. Not to die... When he's an everperson, he'll thank us.

That gave her pause. It might be true. She remembered her first moments as an everperson, suddenly linked to countless other minds, waking to the full expanse of human knowledge like sunlight through an open window, breathless and unexpected.

Still, she said, it's not right.

So you want him to die?

I want to convince him.

And what if you don't? There was panic in his voice. Gabe steadied himself. You brought your tablet, Viv. You know what it's for. Get him to sign.

And what if I don't?

I'll figure something out, with or without you. I won't let him die, Viv. Not this day and age.

Viv kept quiet the rest of her way there. She played memories in her mind, of every conversation she ever had with her father, every time he read her a verse or taught her a parable. She looked for a way to convince him, some doubt, some chink in his armor of belief. But she got distracted by the world outside.

It was strange to pass for a time through physical space. It took longer than she expected. Now watching the sunlight refract through the hoverbus window, she was mesmerized. Every sensation felt more real, more vivid than her memory. "I should do this more often," she said aloud.

The hospital smelled like death. It had fallen into disrepair since her mother's illness. Fewer biological people meant little need for hospitals, or doctors. It would close soon, she thought. Her footsteps echoed through the halls, along with the sounds of old televisions playing old films to keep the patients company.

The room she entered had no sound, except the whirring machines. No light, except an eerie glow filtering through the curtains. The figure on the bed was her father, his breathing strained, his skin cracked like the desert. She closed the door behind her.

When her father turned, she saw a flicker of joy in his eyes. It disappeared.

"La hawla wa la… I thought it was her."

"I am her."

He winced. "She died some twenty years ago."

Viv sat next to him. The machines whirred around them, keeping his body alive another day, or hour, or minute. "It doesn't look good, dad."

"I know."

"You broke a promise."

He held her gaze. "I did?"

"You said we'd see the bats in Australia."

"You were scared of bats."

"And you said they were cute in Oz, the giant bats, like upside down puppies chewing bananas."

He smiled, but that was a long time ago. "Your mom was alive then… Gabe… You were alive…"

"I'm alive now, dad. Look at me. I'm Viv. Vivian Fatema. Your daughter. Half mom, half you. I'm the same person I was."

His eyes shifted. She sensed he wanted to believe. She held his hand and squeezed it. She felt him squeezing back. "I want you to stay, dad."

"There's nothing for me here."

"I'm here."

"You don't love me, Viv. You're a robot."

His hand let go. "You're there… I don't know where. I have a lot to answer for, Viv. I pray. I pray every day, five times a day, sometimes more. I pray that God forgive you for what you did, forgive me for my part, forgive Gabriel... I wish I could stay, love, but… Everyone I love is on the other side."

It hurt her to say the next words: "It's not real, dad."

"Of course you'd say that." He turned his body away from her.

"Please, dad."

She listened to his breathing.

"I love you," she said.

"You don't love me, Viv. You're a robot."

She lowered her head against the bed. She kneeled for countless breaths. It took all her strength to stand up again.

Viv took her briefcase, pulled out her tablet. She stood tapping at the screen for some time. The clenching of her jaw felt like the old days.

"Before I go, I need you to sign something. It's a power of attorney for the house. We can't sell it without you."

"You're selling the house?"

She shrugged. "It's no use to a robot."

His bony finger signed the screen without reading it. She kissed his forehead goodbye.

"Viv?" She stopped. "Before you go, could you open the curtains?"

She did. Her last image of him was a frail old body gazing at the moving clouds.

On the hoverbus home, Viv turned against the window outside. She pressed the briefcase to her like a hug, her mechanical heart thumping against it. Every heartbeat brought a memory back of her biological life. "I should do this more…" She whispered to herself, not caring who might hear. The sunset turned violet.

You made him sign. Gabe sounded like triumph.

"I did."

You did the right thing.

"I know."

Let me see.

She pulled out her tablet and, with a touch, uploaded the file.

Where's my name? Gabe asked. I only see your name.

"I changed it."

What do you mean you "changed it"?

"I changed my mind last minute, Gabe. I didn't think to tell you."

That's funny, sis. Very funny.

"It's not funny at all, Gabe. It's dead serious. I have power of attorney. I'm going to bury him next to mom and Mary."

No… There's no way.

"It's my choice now."

I can't watch him go, Viv. I can't. Don't be selfish.

"I'll miss him." She felt a pain in her chest. "I'll miss him too." Her voice was different now. "But it's what he wanted."

Gabe left her. She heard nothing but her thoughts. Unbearable thoughts.

Viv turned to the darkening world outside. She found her reflection instead, her reflection in tears. She saw her father's eyes.

Fawaz Al-Matrouk
Fawaz Al-Matrouk is a Kuwaiti writer-director based in San Francisco. His short films have played in festivals worldwide, including Cannes, Dubai, and Clermont-Ferrand, winning awards for writing, directing, and audience choice. He completed a BA in history at the University of Toronto and MFA in cinematic arts at the University of Southern California. He is now writing to direct a feature debut with support from SFFILM Rainin Grant and the Sundance Institute Feature Film Program.

A father and son gaze at the ducks in a lake.

(© Photographee.eu/Fotolia)


It's an odd sensation knowing you're going to die, but it was a feeling Gerry Ferguson had become relatively acquainted with over the past two years. What most perplexed the terminally ill, he observed, was not the concept of death so much as the continuation of all other life.

Gerry's secret project had been in the works for two years now, ever since they found the growth.

Who will mourn me when I'm gone? What trait or idiosyncrasy will people most recall? Will I still be talked of, 100 years from now?

But Gerry didn't worry about these questions. He was comfortable that his legacy would live on, in one form or another. From his cozy flat in the west end of Glasgow, Gerry had managed to put his affairs in order and still find time for small joys.

Feeding the geese in summer at the park just down from his house, reading classics from the teeming bookcase in the living room, talking with his son Michael on Skype. It was Michael who had first suggested reading some of the new works of non-fiction that now littered the large oak desk in Gerry's study.

He was just finishing 'The Master Algorithm' when his shabby grandfather clock chimed six o'clock. Time to call Michael. Crammed into his tiny study, Gerry pulled his computer's webcam close and waved at Michael's smiling face.

"Hi Dad! How're you today?"

"I'm alright, son. How're things in sunny Australia?"

"Hot as always. How's things in Scotland?"

"I'd 'ave more chance gettin' a tan from this computer screen than I do goin' out there."

Michael chuckled. He's got that hearty Ferguson laugh, Gerry thought.

"How's the project coming along?" Michael asked. "Am I going to see it one of these days?"

"Of course," grinned Gerry, "I designed it for you."

Gerry's secret project had been in the works for two years now, ever since they found the growth. He had decided it was better not to tell Michael. He would only worry.

The two men chatted for hours. They discussed Michael's love life (or lack thereof), memories of days walking in the park, and their shared passion, the unending woes of Rangers Football Club. It wasn't until Michael said his goodbyes that Gerry noticed he'd been sitting in the dark for the best part of three hours, his mesh curtains casting a dim orange glow across the room from the street light outside. Time to get back to work.

*

Every night, Gerry sat at his computer, crawling forums, nourishing his project, feeding his knowledge and debating with other programmers. Even at age 82, Gerry knew more than most about algorithms. Never wanting to feel old, and with all the kids so adept at this digital stuff, Gerry figured he should give the Internet a try too. Besides, it kept his brain active and restored some of the sociability he'd lost in the previous decades as old friends passed away and the physical scope of his world contracted.

This night, like every night, Gerry worked away into the wee hours. His back would ache come morning, but this was the only time he truly felt alive these days. From his snug red brick home in Scotland, Gerry could share thoughts and information with strangers from all over the world. It truly was a miracle of modern science!

*

The next day, Gerry woke to the warm amber sun seeping in between a crack in the curtains. Like every morning, his thoughts took a little time to come into focus. Instinctively his hand went to the other side of the bed. Nobody there. Of course; she was gone. Rita, the sweetest woman he'd ever known. Four years this spring, God rest her soul.

Puttering around the cramped kitchen, Gerry heard a knock at the door. Who could that be? He could see two women standing in the hallway, their bodies contorted in the fisheye glass of the peephole. One looked familiar, but Gerry couldn't be sure. He fiddled with the locks and pulled the door open.

"Hi Gerry. How are you today?"

"Fine, thanks," he muttered, still searching his mind for where he'd seen her face before.

Noting the confusion in his eyes, the woman proffered a hand. "Alice, Alice Corgan. I pop round every now and again to check on you."

It clicked. "Ah aye! Come in, come in. Lemme get ya a cuppa." Gerry turned and shuffled into the flat.

As Gerry set about his tiny kitchen, Alice called from the living room, "This is Mandy. She's a care worker too. She's going to pay you occasional visits if that's alright with you."

Gerry poked his head around the doorway. "I'll always welcome a beautiful young lady in ma home. Though, I've tae warn you I'm a married man, so no funny business." He winked and ducked back into the kitchen.

Alice turned to Mandy with a grin. "He's a good man, our Gerry. You'll get along just fine." She lowered her voice. "As I said, with the Alzheimer's, he has to be reminded to take his medication, but he's still mostly self-sufficient. We installed a medi-bot to remind him every day and dispense the pills. If he doesn't respond, we'll get a message to send someone over."

Mandy nodded and scribbled notes in a pad.

"When I'm gone, Michael will have somethin' to remember me by."

"Also, and this is something we've been working on for a few months now, Gerry is convinced he has something…" her voice trailed off. "He thinks he has cancer. Now, while the Alzheimer's may affect his day-to-day life, it's not at a stage where he needs to be taken into care. The last time we went for a checkup, the doctor couldn't find any sign of cancer. I think it stems from--"

Gerry shouted from the other room: "Does the young lady take sugar?"

"No, I'm fine thanks," Mandy called back.

"Of course you don't," smiled Gerry. "Young lady like yersel' is sweet enough."

*

The following week, Mandy arrived early at Gerry's. He looked unsure at first, but he invited her in.

Sitting on the sofa nurturing a cup of tea, Alice tried to keep things light. "So what do you do in your spare time, Gerry?"

"I've got nothing but spare time these days, even if it's running a little low."

"Do you have any hobbies?"

"Yes actually." Gerry smiled. "I'm makin' a computer program."

Alice was taken aback. She knew very little about computers herself. "What's the program for?" she asked.

"Well, despite ma appearance, I'm no spring chicken. I know I don't have much time left. Ma son, he lives down in Australia now, he worked on a computer program that uses AI - that's artificial intelligence - to imitate a person."

Alice still looked confused, so Gerry pressed on.

"Well, I know I've not long left, so I've been usin' this open source code to make ma own for when I'm gone. I've already written all the code. Now I just have to add the things that make it seem like me. I can upload audio, text, even videos of masel'. That way, when I'm gone, Michael will have somethin' to remember me by."

Mandy sat there, stunned. She had no idea anybody could do this, much less an octogenarian from his small, ramshackle flat in Glasgow.

"That's amazing Gerry. I'd love to see the real thing when you're done."

"O' course. I mean, it'll take time. There's so much to add, but I'll be happy to give a demonstration."

Mandy sat there and cradled her mug. Imagine, she thought, being able to preserve yourself, or at least some basic caricature of yourself, forever.

*

As the weeks went on, Gerry slowly added new shades to his coded double. Mandy would leaf through the dusty photo albums on Gerry's bookcase, pointing to photos and asking for the story behind each one. Gerry couldn't always remember but, when he could, the accompanying stories were often hilarious, incredible, and usually a little of both. As he vividly recounted tales of bombing missions over Burma, trips to the beach with a young Michael and, in one particularly interesting story, giving the finger to Margaret Thatcher, Mandy would diligently record them through a Dictaphone to be uploaded to the program.

Gerry loved the company, particularly when he could regale the young woman with tales of his son Michael. One day, as they sat on the sofa flicking through a box of trinkets from his days as a travelling salesman, Mandy asked why he didn't have a smartphone.

He shrugged. "If I'm out 'n about then I want to see the world, not some 2D version of it. Besides, there's nothin' on there for me."

Alice explained that you could get Skype on a smartphone: "You'd be able to talk with Michael and feed the geese at the park at the same time," she offered.

Gerry seemed interested but didn't mention it again.

"Only thing I'm worried about with ma computer," he remarked, "is if there's another power cut and I can't call Michael. There's been a few this year from the snow 'n I hate not bein' able to reach him."

"Well, if you ever want to use the Skype app on my phone to call him you're welcome," said Mandy. "After all, you just need to add him to my contacts."

Gerry was flattered. "That's a relief, knowing I won't miss out on calling Michael if the computer goes bust."

*

Then, in early spring, just as the first green buds burst forth from the bare branches, Gerry asked Mandy to come by. "Bring that Alice girl if ya can - I know she's excited to see this too."

The next day, Mandy and Alice dutifully filed into the cramped study and sat down on rickety wooden chairs brought from the living room for this special occasion.

An image of Gerry, somewhat younger than the man himself, flashed up on the screen.

With a dramatic throat clearing, Gerry opened the program on his computer. An image of Gerry, somewhat younger than the man himself, flashed up on the screen.

The room was silent.

"Hiya Michael!" AI Gerry blurted. The real Gerry looked flustered and clicked around the screen. "I forgot to put the facial recognition on. Michael's just the go-to name when it doesn't recognize a face." His voice lilted with anxious excitement. "This is Alice," Gerry said proudly to the camera, pointing at Alice, "and this is Mandy."

AI Gerry didn't take his eyes from real Gerry, but grinned. "Hello, Alice. Hiya Mandy." The voice was definitely his, even if the flow of speech was slightly disjointed.

"Hi," Alice and Mandy stuttered.

Gerry beamed at both of them. His eyes flitted between the girls and the screen, perhaps nervous that his digital counterpart wasn't as polished as they'd been expecting.

"You can ask him almost anything. He's not as advanced as the ones they're making in the big studios, but I think Michael will like him."

Alice and Mandy gathered closer to the monitor. A mute Gerry grinned back from the screen. Sitting in his wooden chair, the real Gerry turned to his AI twin and began chattering away: "So, what do you think o' the place? Not bad eh?"

"Oh aye, like what you've done wi' it," said AI Gerry.

"Gerry," Alice cut in. "What did you say about Michael there?"

"Ah, I made this for him. After all, it's the kind o' thing his studio was doin'. I had to clear some space to upload it 'n show you guys, so I had to remove Skype for now, but Michael won't mind. Anyway, Mandy's gonna let me Skype him from her phone."

Mandy pulled her phone out and smiled. "Aye, he'll be able to chat with two Gerry's."

Alice grabbed Mandy by the arm: "What did you tell him?" she whispered, her eyes wide.

"I told him he can use my phone if he wants to Skype Michael. Is that okay?"

Alice turned to Gerry, who was chattering away with his computerized clone. "Gerry, we'll just be one second, I need to discuss something with Mandy."

"Righto," he nodded.

Outside the room, Alice paced up and down the narrow hallway.

Mandy could see how flustered she was. "What's wrong? Don't you like the chatbot? I think it's kinda c-"

"Michael's dead," Alice spluttered.

"What do you mean? He talks to him all the time."

Alice sighed. "He doesn't talk to Michael. See, a few years back, Michael found out he had cancer. He worked for this company that did AI chatbot stuff. When he knew he was dying he--" she groped in the air for the words-- "he built this chatbot thing for Gerry, some kind of super-advanced AI. Gerry had just been diagnosed with Alzheimer's and I guess Michael was worried Gerry would forget him. He designed the chatbot to say he was in Australia to explain why he couldn't visit."

"That's awful," Mandy granted, "but I don't get what the problem is. I mean, surely he can show the AI Michael his own chatbot?"

"No, because you can't get the AI Michael on Skype. Michael just designed the program to look like Skype."

"But then--" Mandy went silent.

"Michael uploaded the entire AI to Gerry's computer before his death. Gerry didn't delete Skype. He deleted the AI Michael."

"So… that's it? He-he's gone?" Mandy's voice cracked. "He can't just be gone, surely he can't?"

The women stood staring at each other. They looked to the door of the study. They could still hear Gerry, gabbing away with his cybercopy.

"I can't go back in there," muttered Mandy. Her voice wavered as she tried to stem the misery rising in her throat.

Alice shook her head and paced the floor. She stopped and stared at Mandy with grim resignation. "We don't have a choice."

When they returned, Gerry was still happily chatting away.

"Hiya girls. Ya wanna ask my handsome twin any other questions? If not, we could get Michael on the phone?"

Neither woman spoke. Gerry clapped his hands and turned gaily to the monitor again: "I cannae wait for ya t'meet him, Gerry. He's gonna be impressed wi' you."

Alice clasped her hands to her mouth. Tears welled in the women's eyes as they watched the old man converse with his digital copy. The heat of the room seemed to swell, becoming insufferable. Mandy couldn't take it anymore. She jumped up, bolted to the door and collapsed against a wall in the hallway. Alice perched on the edge of her seat in a dumb daze, praying for the floor to open and swallow the contents of the room whole.

Oblivious, Gerry and his echo babbled away, the blue glow of the screen illuminating his euphoric face. "Just wait until y'meet him Gerry, just wait."

Benjamin Graham
Born in the barren heartlands of Durham, England, Ben's love of literature grew from reading the works of Joyce, Hemingway, Ginsberg and several other writers a teenage boy should really have no interest in reading. Following several years struggling to pay rent as a freelance journalist, Ben became a copywriter and editor for an architecture firm in Edinburgh. Ben now divides his time between writing, reading, and frequenting the drinking establishments of renowned Edinburgh authors in the hope of finding some clue to their genius or, failing that, a good dram of whisky.