1.
Bourbon, Interrupted
The courier didn’t come bearing packages, or letters marked Carmine Strange Douglas, esq., Adjudicant, Juris Doctor and Attorney at Law. He didn’t need to. Instead, he came barreling down the hallway like a team of horses, shouting "Door!" at the wall of my office. When a rectangle of frosted glass appeared and swung inward, he jumped inside.
"Carmine. I have something for you," he panted.
"Did you run all the way over here?" I asked him. "There are quicker ways–"
But the courier didn’t answer. Instead, he approached the fax machine–a vertical plate of gray material, vaguely shimmery in the wellstone light of my office–and said, "Reconverge." Then he threw himself at the plate and vanished with a faint blue sizzle.
Reconverge, hell. I’d sent two couriers out to question potential witnesses in the Szymanski divorce, and one had self-destructed rather than share his waste of time with me. The other, apparently, had come back with something both critical and hard to explain. Go figure.
Myself, I’d just finished researching the details on the case, poring over written documents and public records, mental notes and fax traces in an effort to figure out who, if anyone, had promised Albert the cabana boy permanent residence on that tiny estate. Certainly he’d made the claim in public several times, within the hearing of one or both Szymanskis, and neither had corrected him.
This by itself carried a certain legal weight, even if the original claim was baseless, so if the Szymanskis sold the property–and it looked like they were going to have to–Albert’s claim might have to be bought out at his own named price, or sold along with the property as an easement in perpetuity. And in a world without death, perpetuity could be a long damned time! Oh, what a jolly old mess.
It was four-thirty in the afternoon, late enough to kill brain cells with a clear conscience, and I’d just cracked the seal on an opensource bourbon of excellent pedigree. Damn. Sitting open to the atmosphere would not improve it. Still, the courier’s news sounded important in a pay-the-mortgage kind of way, and like most decent bourbons this cost almost nothing to print. And when you’re immorbid, baby, there’s always tomorrow.
Sighing, I got up from my desk, from my too-comfortable chair, and strode over to the fax’s print plate. "Confirming reconvergence, all parameters normal." Then I followed the courier through.
Stepping into a fax machine is like falling face-first into a swimming pool. The sensation isn’t cold, or liquid, or electric, but it’s just as distinct. There is, of course, no sensation of being inside the fax machine, since the part of you that passes through the print plate is immediately whisked apart into component atoms. Technically speaking, there should be no consciousness at all as the head disappears, as the body is destroyed and rebuilt, sometimes in combination with other stored images. But consciousness is a funny thing, an illusion that struggles to preserve itself against any insult. The courier and I stepped out of the plate only a moment after I’d stepped into it. Facing into the room, now, not out of it.
The courier was, of course, myself. We were one and the same, briefly split and now rejoined in that seamless ball of wonderfulness that was Carmine Strange Douglas. Like any good investigative counsel, I did this five or six times a day. Hell, if not for plurality laws–three thousand copy-hours per month, rigidly enforced by the fax network itself–I’d do it more than that.
Anyway, now that I was one person again I knew details of my–of the courier’s–meeting with Lillia Blair, and I knew all the details of my morning and afternoon research. Reconvergence: the collapsing of two waveforms into one. Like any scattered thoughts the pieces took a few seconds to come together in my mind, but when they did, the legal strategy was clear.
"Call Juniper," I said to the wall.
The wall considered this for a moment before answering, "I assume you mean Juniper Tall Szymanski."
I glared at the wall without answering, irritated because I’d already called June Szymanski twice this week, and the only other Juniper I knew–Juniper Pong–I hadn’t spoken to in months. Taking the hint, the wall patched the message through, and created a hollie window beside the open doorway.
For two seconds it displayed nothing but gray; that deep, foggy, three-dimensional gray that some people–myself included–use for a null screen. But then, presently, June Szymanski’s face appeared in the hollie, and behind it her living room. She might as well be standing right outside my office. She might as well be solid, physical, here. I’ve had some practice in distinguishing real windows from hollies, but it takes a microscope and some patience.
"Hi," June said, looking both anxious and pleased to hear from me. "What’ve you got?"
People are always glad to hear from Carmine while their case is unresolved, and especially when the strategy hadn’t been figured out yet. At times like these, I’m everybody’s best friend. If the issue came to trial, I figured June and I would be friends for another week, week and a half. But in light of what I’d just figured out, a trial seemed rather unlikely.
"According to Lillia," I said, "Albert’s exact words were ‘I can stay until I decide to leave.’"
"So?" she asked, absorbing that without really getting it.
"So, that’s a very different thing from ‘I can stay forever,’ or even ‘I can stay as long as I want.’ Because ‘decide to leave’ is a distinct event in time and space. It can be measured, logged, and read into the court records. And we can make a case–a strong one–that simply setting foot outside that cabana will bring the implied contract to an end."
"Huh. Meaning what? I can evict him?"
Can anyone evict anyone these days? "No," I told her. "Not now, and not without a lot of work. But you can inform him that leaving the pool house is grounds for eviction."
Juniper’s face relaxed. "Oh, my God. Thank you so much. I do want to be civil about this, but I can’t have that . . . I can’t face this . . . well, this makes everything a lot easier. You’re a genius, Carmine."
And that was true. I was a genius, I am, but so are all the other lawyers in town. These days it’s impossible practice law–to practice much of anything–if you aren’t unimaginably good at it. Because if you’re not, someone who is will simply print an extra copy of him–or herself, and take over another chunk of your market.
False modesty is bad for business; I’m not ashamed to say I aced my bar exam, went to the best schools and did well in them. I reckon I’d make a good generalist, not only in the practice of law but also in a range of other fields. I was 100 years old, immorbid, and absorbed knowledge voraciously.
But even that wasn’t enough to hold a job in Denver anymore. You had to be generalist and a specialist. You had to be broad and brilliant, but lensed down to a unique pinpoint. You had to get your name associated with some particular little quirk or gimmick of the business so that people, when they ran afoul of it, would know whom to call. Even "interpersonal disputes" cut too broad a swath for a viable legal practice. And anyway it was boring: the same disputes over and over again, with only the names and faces changing. And the faces–sculpted by faxware to beauty and perfection–weren’t so different anymore either.
But I’ve always had a flair for the dramatic and a nose for the bizarre. My directory ad said it all: "If you’ve been wronged, call a lawyer. If you’ve been stranged, call Carmine Strange Douglas."
"This could still turn ugly," I warned June. "That’s a wellstone cabana, right? Fully programmable, no restrictions? And he’s got his own fax machine in there. Crême brulée and ostrich bisque, anytime he likes. If he decides to make a siege of it, he could hold out for a long time."
"Can’t we just shut off the electricity?"
"Ahem! No. And even if you could, he’s got the right to generate his own. Wind, sun, and rain–the Free Three, as they say. Albert has taken sides, Mrs. Szymanski. Specifically he’s taken your husband’s, and he’s not going to vacate just because you ask him nicely. He wants this to be difficult.
"I’ll write a threatening letter if you want, give him something to think about, but my advice to you as a friend is to talk things over with your husband. It’s all right to get bored with each other–if we’re going to live forever, it’s almost inevitable. But somebody’s got make a gesture, here. This is no way for two people to behave, who ever loved each other."
At this, Juniper Szymanski’s face closed down. "You don’t know anything about it, Carmine. Beyond the bare facts. I’m guessing it’s a long time since you’ve been hurt."
And then she cut the connection, and her hollie window winked out.
What a small-minded thing for her to say! I’d been hurt plenty, and bad. In the broken-heart shuffle that began the moment people stopped dying, everyone got hurt. Or maybe they always had, and always would. This was just one of those facts of life, which you could put out of mind if you didn’t happen to be an interpersonal lawyer. Divorces were far and away the worst part of the job, and if I didn’t get the strange ones–the ones snarled hopelessly in unique legal challenges–I don’t know what I would’ve done. Soldiered on, probably; an eternity of less-than-happy labors.
"Close door," I said to the wall, and it obliged me by swinging shut that rectangle of white frosted glass and, with a slight crackle of programmable matter, merging it back with my yellow marble decor again.
Too late, I realized there was someone out there in the corridor. There came a polite rapping on the wall outside, and a muffled voice murmuring, "Door. Door."
With a whispered command, I could make the wall perfectly soundproof. I even did it sometimes, but only when I was really busy and wanted the world to go away. Generally, I liked to feel I was part of the world.
Anyway the office would, of course, not obey the commands of a stranger, so I said, "Door." And like some crayon rubbing on a bas relief, the door magically reappeared, then clicked and swung open with a phony creak of phony hinges. A man stood on the other side with his hat pulled down and his shoulders hunched, glancing furtively to his left and then his right. He stepped inside, and then quite rudely pushed the door until it swung closed again, engaging with a click of imaginary latches. "Carmine Douglas," the stranger said, "I hear you solve people problems."
"I help people with problems," I answered guardedly.
"That’s fine," the man said. "That’s close enough. It’s good to see you, Carmine. You’re looking well."
The lighting in my office–yellow spotlights and venetian-blinded daylight–created pools of atmospheric shadow, and the man had gravitated into one of these, denying me a clear view. But suddenly there was something very familiar about his face, his voice, the way he moved. "Double apparent brightness," I told the room, though I hated the way that washed things out. "And whiten it up a bit. Kill these shadows."
The windows and ceiling did as I commanded, and there, plain as day, like a ghost from the past, was the face of Theodore Great Kaffner, my old roommate from my last three years at North Am. U. He hadn’t aged a bit, which shouldn’t surprise me at all, since I’d never known anyone who did. But still, the sight of my old friend was a shock, a discontinuity. How many decades did that image leap across?
"Theddy?"
"Hey, Carbo. It’s been a long time."
"You look terrible," I said, because that was true as well. "What sort of problem are you having?"
Theddy seemed to cringe at the question. He pointed to the windows on the office’s other wall. "Can we darken those? D’you have some sort of privacy mode, here? A really strong one?"
I did, though I rarely used it. Speaking the commands, I watched my prized yellow marble and peach plaster melt away, turn cold. Within moments the whole room–floor and walls and ceiling alike–was seamless, featureless gray steel, and would obey only my commands, and only from within.
"All right?" I asked, waving my hands at the new decor.
"No," Theddy said. "Conductive surfaces block EMI, but lend themselves to transmissive tampering. We need an insulating layer on top."
Did we, now? How interesting. "Glass?"
"Glass will do."
I gave the appropriate commands, then gave my old friend an annoyed "Well?" sort of look.
And when Theddy shrugged his shoulders noncommittally, I advised him, "Nothing you say will leave this office, or be recorded in anything but my own brain, and yours. But be advised, with a proper warrant the court can search those. They can also take this room apart electron by electron, recording the quantum traces. Nothing is ever truly secret."
"It isn’t secrecy I’m concerned about," Theddy said, eyeing the walls warily, "it’s security. Someone very clever is trying to kill me."
Naturally this statement brought me up short, because it was virtually impossible to kill a person in the Queendom of Sol. Oh sure, you could kill their body, could destroy whatever memory they’d built up since the last time they stepped through a fax machine, or stored their atomically perfect image in an archive somewhere. But the archives themselves were unassailable. People had died in the chaos of the Fall, 80 years before, and since that time a lot of precautions had been put in place. A lot of precautions.
Fearing some sort of transient mental illness in Theddy–a delusional paranoia?–I chose my next words carefully. "Thed, that sounds like a matter for the police. If what you say is true, they can have a team on it before you draw your next breath. We can make the call from here."
But Theddy was shaking his head. "I’m not an idiot, Carbo. This isn’t a criminal matter. It’s civil, or maybe administrative, or something which if I knew what it was, I wouldn’t need you."
"Slow down, Theddy," I tried. "You’re stringing words together, but you’re not making sense. Administrative murder? What’s that? Who exactly is trying to kill you?"
And here, Theddy fixed his old roommate with a level, half-panicked gaze. "I am. And I’m doing a good job of it, too."
2.
Xerography, Complicated
Generally speaking, keeping old copies of yourself was like keeping anything else. Found objects, hobby collections, treasured letters or artifacts from childhood–whatever. You could only fit so many on a shelf or in a cabinet, so at some point you boxed them up and stuck them in the attic, or fed them into the fax to be stored as data. And once that happened, chances were you wouldn’t see those things again, nor ever miss them.
Archive copies were exactly the same way: there were people who kept only one, the latest and greatest incarnation of their perfect selves. There were even those who, for financial or aesthetic reasons, stored only the differences between themselves and some idealized manikin of human perfection.
But with either strategy it was possible to make a mistake, to internalize and record some experience that weakened or cheapened or traumatized the soul. And you couldn’t always know that this had happened, and if you’d overwritten your earlier backups then you were pretty much stuck with the results for eternity. You could also, in the same way, lose track of what you were supposed to look like, lose track of your God-given body, which had been really good at baseball or algebra, which had just felt right somehow. Most people had a bit of this disconnection in their lives–it was pain of an ordinary sort–and admittedly the real horror stories were rare.
But they happened, and in fact I’d encountered enough victims in my practice–their circumstances ranging from tragic to absurd–that for more than half my life I’d been following the costlier and more restrictive change control regimen favored by the various mental health councils. This involved archiving my entire self every five to ten years, and storing each copy, with annotations, alongside the previous ones in a facility that was guaranteed to remain uncorrupted by natural forces for a minimum of 10 million years. Effective infinity, in other words, because even if I somehow lived that long, I reasoned that I’d be unlikely to care what I’d thought or felt or looked like as a mere centenarian.
Theddy had apparently followed a similar practice, though in some dangerous and backward-looking way. "Being unhappy with your life doesn’t mean you necessarily want to scrap the whole decade and start over. We all have our troubles. I like the wisdom I’ve accumulated, but along the way I seem to have lost the spirit I had as a younger man. Some of it–enough of it. And shouldn’t we, as immorbid beings, have both? I guess I was mixing and matching."
"You guess?"
"Listen, I was attending a matter programming conference on Mars. The rest of me were all back home, taking care of personal and professional minutia. Or so I presume. So I infer from the circumstances, as an outsider. As for what I was thinking, what exactly I was doing, I can only speculate."
I thought that over. People had different viewpoints on plurality; some even claimed that every copy of them had its own unique soul. Fortunately, the law rarely ruled in their favor with a legal twinning, or the world would quickly overpopulate with nearly identical people. Xeropollution: the arrogant assumption that the world needed more and more and more of your precious, perfect self. And that question had been settled–with fire and blood–in the Dallas of the Late Modern era, and I doubted very much whether society wanted to repeat the experiment.
I personally liked to keep my copies close together in both time and space. I didn’t send myself on vacation while the rest of me worked. I didn’t cover multiple long-term assignments in parallel, and then reconverge afterward. It just gets confusing, when the experiences of your copies have diverged that much. My sense of self was, I suppose, a small thing: capable of encompassing only a handful of very similar instantiations. But while Theddy Kaffner had his fair share of faults, timidity was not among them.
Nor, tellingly, was malice. The Theddy of old was an irate fellow, but never a hurtful one. If he pushed someone down the stairs every now and then, he did it in the spirit of horseplay, knowing that no permanent harm could possibly result. Broken bones were just a fax plate away from their old glory, right? And Theddy, the programmer, was far more likely to just hack your shirt’s wellcloth with a smear of ink or something, or throw himself down the stairs for a laugh. He’d been full of rages and frustrations, but he’d channeled them into useful hobbies, which included running and acting and the building of wooden models. The idea of his committing a murder, or even threatening one was . . . strange.
"What do you mean by mixing and matching?"
Theddy’s stressed-up expression relaxed for a moment, into a smile as wistful as I had lately seen. "You’re the food freak, Carbo. You know how it is: a pinch of this, a dash of that . . . a soupçon of my angry young self, to spice up my flavor a bit. I suppose I overdid it. Angry Young Theddy was a force to be reckoned with; did even I, myself, underestimate him? Did 10 percent of him overwhelm 90 percent of the canonical me? Or maybe it just felt good. Maybe I kept turning the knob, adding more and more of him until it was too late."
I spread my hands, unsure what to say. "More than anything, Thed, this sounds like a communication problem. Have you tried talking to yourself?"
"Yeah, briefly," Theddy said, the stress snapping back down over his features like a new matter program. "Until I kidnapped myself, with a force of three Theddies. These guys, who said they were me, they lifted me right off the floor. They were going to throw me through the print plate of my own goddamn fax machine in my own goddamn living room. Can you imagine? ‘You’re the last one,’ they said, ‘and it’s one too many.’ The way they were laughing, the way they were–I don’t know, handling me. It went beyond contempt, Carbo. This was hatred. ‘How could I turn into a fuck like you?’ That was what Angry Young Theddy said to me.
"But he underestimated the power of fear. They meant to kill me, erase me–there was no question about that. They weren’t fighting for their lives, and I was, so in the end they couldn’t hold me. I felt their bones breaking. I felt an eyeball pop. As long as I live, I never want to feel a thing like that."
Okay, yeah, this was complicated. If there was a right place for Theddy to come to with this problem, my office was probably it. But where to begin?
"I’ll need a full power of attorney," I said for starters, "and since you appear to have valid concerns for your physical safety, it may be best to store you here, in my office fax, under a seal of attorney-client privilege. The state can open that–the state can open anything–but you can’t. The pattern that comprises you right now, right here, will be preserved no matter what Angry Young Theddy thinks or does."
"He’s cleverer than you suppose," Theddy warned.
But I just laughed. "Nobody’s cleverer than I suppose."
There was a bit more to it than that, but Theddy wanted help, and wasn’t in a mood to argue. His agreement was not difficult to secure, and neither, as a result, was his physical person. It didn’t take three guys to push him through the plate, and truthfully, I wasn’t sure three guys could have stopped him if they’d been here to try. It was a safer place, and he wanted in.
3.
A Pedestrian Encounter
When you traveled by fax machine–and who didn’t?–no place in the solar system was more than a few hours away, and if you were the one being transmitted, not the one waiting around at the other end, then from your point of view the journey was instantaneous. With a handful of steps, I could have found myself on the landing outside any home or apartment, anywhere. It was a funny thing, though: Theddy had lived less than a mile from my office for almost 20 years. How strange, that we should live so close for so long without realizing it! But living forever can be like that: it’s easy to put things off, to assign them to the infinite and amorphous future. Even important things; even close friends.
Anyway, Denver was a historical preservation zone where walking was actively encouraged. In the eight square kilometers of the downtown district, faxing was actually illegal for anything but official business or the direst emergencies, and the city was adorned for tens of kilometers all around with roads and sidewalks, trails and quaint little bridges arching across the streams and rivers. This classic look was a large part of the city’s appeal, and I wasn’t about to abuse it by teleporting six blocks. The walk might take me 20 minutes, and might represent more exercise than most people got in a year, but my body, rendered eternally youthful by the fax filters, was surely up to the job. Whose wasn’t? People who don’t like walking, who don’t like mountain views and fresh air and strangers on the street, well . . . they should live someplace else. Denver was not made for indoor souls.
Still, once outside I felt a twinge of regret for my decision, as the November afternoon rolled over me with shocking, unseasonable heat. "Mild winter" didn’t begin to describe the weather we were having that year, but I kept forgetting. I kept dressing for wind and fog and the possibility of snow. My jacket did its best to fight off the heat (blasting it behind me in a stream of warm air), but in the shade of downtown’s towers it had no ready power source, so there wasn’t a lot it could actually do.
There’s an irony for you: on a hot day it’s cooler in the sun than the shade! But the shirt underneath was having a hard time as well, and I couldn’t remove the jacket without revealing the sweat stains it was failing to disperse from under my arms. Life can be so unfair.
Anyway, Theddy’s case was heavy on my mind, and June Szymanski’s still hadn’t left it, and the two were filling up very different pieces of my brain. So I was deeper than usual in thought, and found the bustle and jangle of the crowds annoying. Some street wisdom I heard that day:
"Hollywood is a plant, Gabriel. The city, they were calling it that way before they started making hollies there."
"There’s nothing noble about boredom, aye? Are there people you could be helping? Societies you could enrich? Don’t you give me that look, you vegetable."
"Oh, of course you have the right to design a new life form. Everyone does. But for criminy’s sake, John, that doesn’t mean you have the right to instantiate it in the real world."
Yeah. Real pearls, those. The streets of this city had always been crowded, or nearly always, but even I, a mere centenarian, could remember a time when the crowds all had someplace to go, some purpose in their steps. As often as not it was someplace they were forced to go, to stave off economic ruin in a scarcity-based economy, but still. The city’s loitering laws had never been repealed, and ought at least occasionally to be enforced.
With its bright colors and piled-high fashions, its buskers and mimes, its living sculptures "dancing to the din of a dozen decades," the city resembled a carnival that day as much as a center of business or residence or learning. And for some reason I found this deeply irritating.
On the other hand, it wasn’t like anyone was holding a sword to my neck, forcing me to interact, to be here at all. I was a champion of strangeness, and these, for better or worse, were my people. And anyway it was a short walk before I found myself in front of Theddy’s apartment building, a retro-opensource brownstone in the twenty-second-century style.
"How may I help you, sir?" The building asked, in what was surely its politest voice.
"I’m here to see Theddy Kaffner."
"I’m afraid Mr. Kaffner isn’t in at the moment," the building clucked, with quite a good semblance of regret.
"It’s a serious matter," I told the building. "A legal matter, I’m afraid. If you have a buffer copy of Mr. Kaffner on hand, and I imagine you do, then I must request you print him and allow me to speak with him at once."
The building’s intelligence didn’t like that one bit, and sounded cross. "On what grounds? You’re not a police officer." (And this was true, although I knew a lot of police, and had once loved a policeman’s daughter.) "Nor do you bear the carrier signal of a government official. By studying your face I can make a guess as to your identity, but I would prefer that you simply explain yourself."
Fair enough. "My name is Carmine Strange Douglas. Mr. Kaffner’s attorney. The rest I’ll say to him, if you don’t mind."
"I have no record of this association," the house said skeptically, "although your face and pheromone signature match that name, and the social network archives indicate you have fraternized with Mr. Kaffner in the past. Do you have any proof that this arrangement exists?"
I held up a bonded, self-notarizing copy of the power of attorney, and the building opened instantly, curling aside a broad doorway of gold and pearl and other substances I couldn’t identify. "Please come in, sir, and excuse my rudeness in detaining you. One can’t be too careful these days, and in any case my security settings are at legal maximum."
"No offense taken," I assured it, since the thing was only doing its job, following its program, and had no actual feelings. Or so the law declared. Inside, among furnishings assembled from white puffy pillow-cubes, I found Theddy in deep conference with the wall.
Presumably, he was receiving a briefing on this turn of events–my arrival and such–since from his own perspective he had just moments before stepped through the fax machine on his way to somewhere quite different. This was a buffer copy, probably not more than a few hours old, and he had no way of knowing why I was here.
When Theddy saw me, he looked up with an expression of wonder. "Carbo? My God, man, what’re you doing here? It’s great to see you! But when exactly did you become my lawyer?"
"About half an hour ago," I said, extending a warm handshake. "There’s a copy of you in my office who claims he was assaulted. By you, or rather, by several instances of you. I was hoping you could shed some light on the subject."
Theddy’s hand withdrew from mine, and his face grew cautious, and right away I could see there was something different about him. He was less like the Theddy in my office, and more like the one I’d remember if I really thought back. The angry prankster. A composite sketch of New Theddy would be all broad lines and shallow curves, but while Young Theddy looked the same, he wore it differently. Here was a fellow of edges and points and sharp, staccato movements.
"There was an altercation," Theddy admitted, "but he started it. All I did was defend myself."
"Against what?"
Theddy’s answering look was not quite a sneer. "That copy must have got some bad poison along the way, Carbo. He was irrational, and slow. It would have taken a lot of patience to get any sense out of him, and who’s got the time?"
Well, that sounded believable enough.
"Did you try to push him into the fax?"
"It was the only way I could think of to, you know, figure out what his problem was. Merge a little bit of him with a lot of myself, and see what was on his mind."
I’d never been one to beat around the bush, so I came right out with it: "Theddy, have you been mingling your image with archive copies of yourself? Would a personality scan reveal sudden, dramatic changes in your character?"
"Yes," Theddy said, as if it were the most normal thing the world.
"Hmm. Well, listen, this allegedly deviant copy of yourself is the contemporary version. It’s who all his friends and neighbors and colleagues are used to seeing. If he were in fact stored in your personal fax machine, per your plans, would you ever print him out again?"
"Hell no," Theddy answered, with that same matter-of-fact, self-righteous conviction. As if people did that sort of thing every day. Oh boy. Oh boy, oh boy. Some dangerous cocktail of thoughts and experiences had come together in this copy’s brain. Theddy–the real Theddy–was right to be afraid: this man was not only capable of self-murder, but felt it was, in some way, his legal right. And I wondered: where was the case law to prove otherwise?
And to think I’d thought the Szymanski divorce was a mess! "What we have here," I said cautiously, "is a case of disputed identity. Two divergent copies of the same individual, laying claim to editorial rights over each other. That being the case, I personally have a conflict of interest, and must make no further contact with you, except if necessary in court. If you intend to prosecute your rights in this matter–and I find it difficult to imagine otherwise–you’ll need to retain your own counsel. I cannot advise you in this."
Theddy scowled. "Oh you can’t, can’t you? Maybe the years have eroded your memory, dear friend, but you and I have an agreement, which predates any contract you may have with . . . that other bloke. That failed experiment. That shriveled old creature who does not deserve to wear Theddy Kaffner’s skin."
Though it might be a breach of ethics, I took the bait. "What agreement is that?"
"I’ll find it."
Theddy stepped to the wall and began whispering to it. A hollie window appeared there, displaying lists of text with little thumbnail images beside them. Theddy poked at the display several times, muttering, and finally said, "Ha! Found it."
A beer-stained cocktail napkin tumbled out of the fax machine, into Theddy’s waiting hands. He scanned it briefly, nodding, then handed it to me. It said, in appallingly familiar handwriting,
I, Carmine Douglas, through the power vested in me by the state of inebriation, do solemnly swear that I will never lose my faith or spirit, and that I will look out for my friend Theddy come what may, for all eternity and throughout the universe.
It was signed and even–though the hologram was hard to make out–notarized.
"You can’t be serious," I said, waving the thing as if to dry it. "This isn’t legally binding." But even as the words were out of my mouth, I realized it might not be so. There were times in the historical past when what was legal and what was right were two different things, when valid arguments could be crafted to excuse almost anything, but the Queendom of Sol took a dim view indeed of broken promises. Theddy saw it in my face, too; he was a hard man to hide things from. I sighed and asked, "What do you want? What does it take to make this thing go away?"
Theddy sneered in youthful triumph. "If you want to go legal on me, old friend, I can only respond in kind. I do want my own counsel, as promised to me in this old contract. I want you. Not this stuffy alien creature you’ve become, but the young, angry, lovesick Carbo I went to school with. Well, I suppose you’d have to add a couple of years to that, or he wouldn’t be a lawyer yet, but you see what I mean. I want my old roommate to defend me."
With a sinking feeling I realized that might just stick. Theddy might just have a point, which the law, in its finite wisdom and limited experience, had never yet addressed. The right of archive copies to be revived? To seek the company of their peers? To repudiate their future lives?
"Call my office," I said, sighing uneasily. "I’ll authorize it to set something up. Not because I have to–and certainly not because I want to–but because you’ve raised an interesting point, and it needs to be properly explored. Even a younger me, a green me fresh out of school, is better qualified than most attorneys to wrestle this particular alligator. In fact, if I didn’t buy into it voluntarily, the court might well assign it. In which case they’d offer you a disposable copy of me, which would self-destruct once the dispute was resolved. And that, my friend, is an involuntary servitude I would not wish on my younger self, who was an innocent and charming lad."
All of which was true, insofar as it went. Unlike Theddy, and with a single and quite excusable exception, my own younger self could be trusted. So why, in my heart just then, did the prospect of unleashing him bring nothing but dread? n
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