Lethe

When he raced outside, it was to see the blazing poppy unfolding in the sky, a blossom of fire and metal falling slowly to the surface of the newly christened planet.

There she was–her image anyway–in the neo-gothic armchair: Red Katrin, the green-eyed lady with whom he in memory, and Old Davout in reality, had first exchanged glances two centuries ago while Dolphus expanded on what he called his “lunaforming.”

Davout had hesitated about returning her call of condolence. He did not know whether his heart could sustain two knife-thrusts, both Katrin’s death and the sight of her sib, alive, sympathetic, and forever beyond his reach.

But he couldn’t not call her. Even when he was trying not to think about her, he still found Katrin on the edge of his perceptions, drifting though his thoughts like the persistent trace of some familiar perfume.

Time to get it over with, he thought. If it was more than he could stand, he could apologize and end the call. But he had to know . . .

“And there are no backups?” she said. A pensive frown touched her lips.

“No recent backups,” Davout said. “We always thought that, if we were to die, we would die together. Space travel is hazardous, after all, and when catastrophe strikes it is not a small catastrophe. We didn’t anticipate one of us surviving on Earth, and the other dying light-years away.” He scowled.

“Damn Mosheshwe anyway! There were recent backups on the Beagle, but with so many dead from an undetermined cause, he decided not to resurrect anyone, to cancel our trip to Astoreth, return to Earth, and sort out all the complications once he got home.”

“He made the right decision,” Katrin said. “If my sib had been resurrected, you both would have died together.”

Davout’s fingers began to form the mudra, but he thought better of it, made a gesture of negation.

The green eyes narrowed. “There are older backups on Earth, yes?”

“Katrin’s latest surviving backup dates from the return of the Cheng Ho.”

“Almost ninety years ago.” Thoughtfully. “But she could upload the memories she has been sending me . . . the problem does not seem insurmountable.”

Red Katrin clasped her hands around one knee. At the familiar gesture, memories rang through Davout’s mind like change-bells. Vertigo overwhelmed him, and he closed his eyes.

“The problem is the instructions Katrin–we both–left,” he said. “Again, we anticipated that if we died, we’d die together. And so we left instructions that our backups on Earth were not to be employed. We reasoned that we had two sibs apiece on Earth, and if they–you–missed us, you could simply duplicate yourselves.”

“I see.” A pause, then concern. “Are you all right?”

“Of course not,” he said. He opened his eyes. The world eddied for a moment, then stilled, the growing calmness centered on Red Katrin’s green eyes.

“I’ve got seventy-odd years’ back pay,” he said. “I suppose that I could hire some lawyers, try to get Katrin’s backup released to my custody.”

Red Katrin bit her nether lip. “Recent court decisions are not in your favor.”

“I’m very persistent. And I’m cash-rich.”

She cocked her head, looked at him. “Are you all right talking to me? Should I blank my image?”

He shook his head. “It helps, actually, to see you.”

He had feared agony in seeing her, but instead he found a growing joy, a happiness that mounted in his heart. As always, his Katrin was helping him to understand, helping him to make sense of the bitter confusion of the world.

An idea began to creep into his mind on stealthy feet.

“I worry that you’re alone there,” Red Katrin said. “Would you like to come stay with us? Would you like us to come to Java?”

“I’ll come see you soon,” Davout said. “But while I’m in the hospital, I think I’ll have a few cosmetic procedures.” He looked down at himself, spread his leathery hands. “Perhaps I should look a little more Earthlike.”

After his talk with Katrin ended, Davout called Dr. Li and told him that he wanted a new body constructed.

Something familiar, he said, already in the files. His own, original form.