Death Match

FORTY-TWO

Richard Silver stepped carefully from the treadmill and paused, breathing hard, while the belt finished decelerating. Turning off the machine, he reached for a towel and mopped his brow. It had been one of his toughest workouts — forty-five minutes at six miles per hour, eight-percent grade — yet his mind remained as troubled as when he first got on.

Dropping the towel into a canvas bin, he left the exercise room and walked down the corridor to the kitchen, where he filled a glass of water from the tap. Nothing he did seemed to remove the oppressiveness that hung over him. It had been this way since the morning, when the sheet naming Lash as the only possible killer emerged from the printer.

He took a few disinterested sips, placed the glass in the sink. He stood a moment, staring without really seeing. And then he sank forward, leaning his elbows on the counter and pressing a fist against his forehead: once, twice, a third time…

He had to stop. He had to get on with things, he had to. Maintaining a semblance of normality was the only way to get through this least normal of times.

He straightened. Four-fifteen. What would he normally be doing now?

Having his afternoon session with Liza.

Silver exited the kitchen and headed for the end of the corridor. Usually his mornings were devoted to reading tech journals and white papers; his early afternoons to business matters; and his evenings to programming. But he always made time to visit with Liza before dinner. This was when he spoke with her, discussed program updates, got a sense of her progress. It was a time he always looked forward to: communicating with something that was part himself, part his invention, was a feeling unlike any other Silver had ever known. It was worth all the effort it cost him. It was an experience he could never hope to communicate to anybody else.

He guarded this time against all interruptions, always began promptly at four. Today was the first time he’d been late since Liza and her vast array of supporting hardware were installed in the penthouse, four years earlier.

Slipping into the contoured chair, he began fixing the electrodes, struggling to clear his mind. Only long practice made it possible. Minutes passed while he prepared himself. Then he placed his hand on the keypad and began to type.

“Richard,” came the haunting, disembodied voice.

“Hello, Liza.”

“You are seventeen minutes late. Is anything wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, Liza.”

“I am pleased. Shall I begin with the status report? I have been testing the new communications pseudocode you installed and have made some minor modifications.”

“Very good, Liza.”

“Would you like to hear the process details?”

“No, thank you. We can skip the rest of the report today.”

“Then would you like to discuss the latest scenarios you assigned? I am preparing to undertake scenario 311, Creating False Positives in the Turing Test.”

“Perhaps tomorrow, Liza. I feel like proceeding directly to the story.”

“Very well.”

Silver reached beneath the chair — careful not to loosen any of the electrodes as he did so — and pulled out a well-thumbed book. It was his mother’s, one of the very few he’d retained from earliest childhood.

The high point of his sessions with Liza was always the reading. Over the years he had progressed from the very simplest stories, teaching her, by example, the rudiments of human values. It was satisfying in an almost paternal way. It always made him feel better, less lonely. Perhaps today it could clear even the dark cloud of guilt that hung over him. And perhaps by the time he’d finished reading, he would have the courage to voice the question he both yearned — and dreaded — to ask.

He paused to refocus his mind, then opened the book. “Do you recall where we left off, Liza?”

“Yes. The rodent Templeton had retrieved the egg sac of the spider.”

“Good. And why did he do it?”

“The pig had promised sustenance in return.”

“And why did the pig’s friend, Charlotte, want the egg sac saved?”

“To ensure the survival of her children and thus the propagation of the species.”

“But Charlotte could not save the egg sac herself.”

“That is correct.”

“So who saved it?”

“Templeton.”

“Let me rephrase. Who was the motivic agent in saving the egg sac?”

“The pig Wilbur.”

“Correct. Why did he save it, Liza?”

“To achieve parity with the spider. The spider had assisted him.”

Silver lowered the book. Liza had no trouble understanding motives like self-survival and behavior rewards. But even now, the other, subtler, emotions remained hard to grasp.

“Are your ethical routines enabled?” he asked.

“Yes, Richard.”

“Then let us go on. That is one reason he saved the egg sac. The other is the feelings he had for the spider.”

“You speak metaphorically.”

“Correct. It is a metaphor for human behavior. For human love.”

“Yes.”

“Wilbur loved Charlotte. Just as Charlotte loved Wilbur.”

“I understand, Richard.”

Silver closed his eyes for a moment. Today, even this most prized of times felt hollow. The question would have to wait.

“I must terminate this session, Liza,” he said.

“Our dialogue has only lasted five minutes and twenty seconds.”

“I know. There are a few things I need to do. So let us close by finishing chapter twenty-one.”

“Very well, Richard. Thank you for speaking with me.”

“Thank you, Liza.” And Silver raised Charlotte’s Web, found the dog-earned page, and began: