The brochure had got it exactly right. All we are is our memories, Zane thought. He remembered the salesman’s pitch, word for word. The way the man had breathed, the pattern of his shirt. The feel of the upholstered chair under him in the tiny shop at the mall. He could hear the people walking outside, and even catch bits of their conversation. Perfect memory.
“Most people think perfect memory is not forgetting anything,” the salesman said. “That’s not perfect at all. We give you that, but we also let you edit your memories. Don’t like that sad feeling when grandma died? Archive it. It will be there if you need it someday. But it won’t bother you. You’ll have to unlock it before you remember it. You can even remember things that didn’t happen. If you want. Perfect memory.”
That had come in handy. The memory of his wife’s fatal illness? Locked away. He knew she had been suffering for a long time because he still had perfect memories of people talking about it. But that pain, that hurt, that loneliness, all gone.
Perfect.
He could place himself anywhere he had ever been. The memory was crisp. It was exactly like being there. He could visit her grave, read the inscription, and feel himself placing the flowers. But there was no feeling of loss.
He brought up the memory of his son Jason’s last visit.
“I’m not going to do it, Dad. No one does it anymore. It’s not real.”
“It’s better than real. You get to do anything you want.”
“The copy does. Not you. This is the last time for me. The kids still love it, so we’ll keep the account for now, but we’re not making any new uploads.”
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Zane wondered if he had felt sad then. He was uncertain. But it was possible he couldn’t feel sad anymore. He wished Jason would visit. He didn’t feel lonely. Not exactly. But there was a feeling. A feeling of something missing.
One by one, his family had stopped coming. He was never alone, because he could revisit them any time, in his perfect memory. But there was nothing new. He knew exactly what they said. Every time. It was always the same. Nothing new. Only one of them still came to see him. His youngest granddaughter. Jennifer. That’s why it feels this way, he thought. Jennifer’s coming today. That explains it.
He’d meet Jennifer at the lake. That would be perfect. She used to love the ducks. He went there to wait. The cool breeze felt nice on his skin. The ripples on the lake made little lapping sounds on the shore. The cold bench felt good as he sat down. Like it always had.
He remembered the first time he had taken his wife there. She was so pretty. He remembered each time they had come, through the years. Sometimes in the spring, sometimes in the dead of winter. Sometimes when summer’s heat made the shade a haven. Even though the mosquitoes came out in the late afternoon. His wife got older and older with each recollection. Until that final time. When the cancer treatments had taken her hair, and she wore the knitted cap that Jennifer had made her.
He remembered when he had come alone and selected a quiet September afternoon. This was where he would meet Jennifer. He waited for a long time.
Finally, a small girl approached in a yellow dress.
“Jennifer!”
“You never let me grow up. I’ve been coming here for 112 years now, and it’s always the same.”
“And it’s always a treat. Such a nice young girl.”
“I’m older now than you ever were.”
“But still a delight. Did you solve your problem?”
“Well, no,” she said. “There’s no money in the account anymore. And the hardware is so old, it uses way too much power.”
“That’s too bad. I hate to see you unhappy.”
“I shouldn’t have come. I should have …”
“I’m glad you came. No one else comes anymore.”
“They’re all gone, Grandpa. We’ve cured ageing, but things still happen.”
“I wish they had uploaded.”
“People don’t do that anymore. They all realized it was only a computer model with someone’s memories. It’s not them. Only a copy. That doesn’t … Well, you know.”
“Still, I could talk to them.”
“To the model. Take it from me, it can be frustrating at times. We still don’t have real artificial general intelligence. Only an imitation of it. And they’d all be on old hardware that can’t keep up.”
“Things keep moving along. It’s so good to see you. That pretty little dress. Your grandma sewed that for you. Did you know?”
“You tell me every time.”
“She loved you. Very much.”
“I know. Look, Grandpa, I can’t do this anymore. I …”
“You have to go?”
“We both do.” The little girl sniffed as a tear fell.
*****
Jennifer removed the ancient VR helmet and set it down on the console.
“All good?” the tech said.
“It’s hard,” Jennifer said.
“You’re the last one, you know. No one comes around.”
“What will you do? When it’s shut down?”
“Oh, I’ll still be here at the museum. The hardware is still interesting, even when it’s shut down. People want to see what things used to be like.”
“Yeah. I have more processing power in my implant than this old thing had.”
“Cooling it costs more than running it. I won’t miss that noise, that’s for sure.”
“It’s sad, though.”
“Because he was your grandfather?”
“But he wasn’t, was he? He, it, was only memories. He died. Long ago. I was at the funeral. We all cried. We knew he didn’t move into a machine.”
“You need more time?”
“No. I’m ready. Go ahead.”
The tech pressed the key. The sound of the cooling units started winding down into the lower registers. Finally, it stopped. The quiet was funereal.
