Rollback

Epilogue

“Come on, everyone! Let’s go!”

Don had pulled the big van up to the edge of the large concrete plaza in front of the docks. Hundreds of tourists were milling about, either waiting to get on one of the high-speed ferries, or, like Don’s family, having just gotten off one. The plaza was ringed by vendors selling T-shirts, hot dogs, and more. Lenore was standing near the barrier that prevented Don from bringing the van any closer. “You heard your father!” she called. “We want to get there while the sun’s still up.”

Don couldn’t blame them for dawdling. This spot, at the foot of Hurontario Street, was the only place they’d been where they could get a good view of the entire fairgrounds, sprawling across two artificial islands out in Lake Ontario. The American pavilion was a gigantic diamond—quite literally—and the Chinese pavilion honored both its nation’s culture and Earth’s most famous nonhuman citizens by being built in the shape of a rampant dragon whose body curved and twisted to match the one depicted by the constellation of Draco. Rising between them was the glistening carbon-nanotube Spire of Hope, which had brought back to Toronto the title of being home to the world’s tallest building.

Don was used to his sons’ three-legged walk, but the tourists who had been discreetly watching them now gawked openly at the surprisingly graceful spectacle of them in motion. His daughter, though, was standing still. Fifteen-year-old Gillian, who had her mother’s freckles but her father’s sandy brown hair, was one place from the head of the line for a cotton-candy vendor. She looked at her dad with an anxious expression, wondering if she’d have to bail before securing her treat.

“It’s okay,” Don called out. “But hurry!”

He and Lenore had done their best raising Gillian, and Don had been pleased to find how relaxing it had been to be a parent the second time around; with the quiet confidence of experience, he’d had a much better handle on what were genuine crises and which things would pass of their own accord.

The boys, who, at two and a half meters tall and two hundred kilos apiece, had no trouble making their way through the crowd, had also turned out all right. They’d been raised alongside Gillian in a house Cody McGavin had paid for—in Winnipeg, as it happened, since prudence suggested that it be somewhere near a level-four biohazard containment lab, and the one there was the only one in North America designed to handle livestock and other large lifeforms. Hundreds of experts watched the goings-on in the house through webcams, and provided what advice they could.

But Don and Lenore were the boys’ parents, and ultimately, as all parents did, they went with their best instincts.

Don touched the control that opened the rear passenger compartment. The van—the Dracmobile, as the press had dubbed it—had a high enough roof to accommodate the boys, neither of whom could sit; their two front legs and thick hind leg weren’t built for that. Once they were in, Don sealed the compartment, and let the carbon-dioxide scrubbers get to work. By the time Gillian had arrived, gingerly carrying her giant ball of pink cotton candy, the green light on the dashboard had gone on, and the boys had removed their filter masks.

Don had never thought he’d own such a big van, but, then again, the days of worrying about gas mileage were long since gone. It had taken a while, but he’d finally gotten tired of intoning, as Robin had in the 1960s Batman series, “Atomic batteries to power! Turbines to speed!” whenever he climbed in. Lenore got into the front passenger seat, and Gillian and Gunter—the Gees, as they were collectively referred to in the Halifax-Darby household—piled into the second row of seats.

“When does the ceremony start tonight?” Don asked.

“Nine o’clock,” Gunter supplied.

“Perfect,” he said, pulling away from the curb. “Plenty of time.” He could have let the Mozo do the driving, but, gosh darn it, driving your whole family around in the big old family vehicle was one of the joys of fatherhood.

“So,” said Lenore, looking back over her shoulder, “everybody having a good time so far?”

“Oh, yeah!” said Amphion, and his crests rippled enthusiastically. “Terrific!” The boys had no trouble making the sounds for English; they had a much wider vocal range than humans did. But despite the best possible language instruction, they seemed constitutionally incapable of using the passive voice. Some opined that this was the seat of Dracon morality: the inability to conceive of an action having occurred without a responsible party. “I thought the utility-fog demo was amazing,” added Zethus. A contest had been held to name the Draclings when they were born; the winning entry had been Amphion and Zethus, after the twin sons of Zeus who had been raised on Earth by foster parents.

Don nodded. The nanotech fog had been incredible to watch, but for him the most exciting thing had been the flying cars—a technology he’d finally lived long enough to see.

Canada had turned two hundred this past summer, and it was celebrating this centennial the same way it had the last one: by hosting a world’s fair. Don remembered visiting the first one as a child with his parents, and being amazed by giant lasers, touchtone phones, monorails, and a massive geodesic sphere filled with American space capsules. That fair, like this one, had been called Expo 67, with only a two-digit year; just two-thirds of a century into the new millennium and the lessons old Peter de Jager had tried to teach the world were totally forgotten. But, also like the original, this fair was at least in part a showcase for the latest and greatest technology, some of which had been derived from the artificial womb and incubator plans the Dracons had beamed to Earth.

Don pulled the van into traffic. A few other drivers honked politely and waved; Amphion and Zethus were famous, the hulking green Dracmobile was unmistakable—and the Manitoba vanity plate that said STARKIDS didn’t hurt.

Don had been six years old when Canada had turned one hundred in 1967. Back then, the government had contacted people who were born the same year the nation was, and arranged for school visits by those who were well enough. Even after all this time, Don vividly remembered meeting his very first centenarian then, an impossibly ancient man confined to a wheelchair.

But now a hundred more years had passed, and Don himself was a centenarian; in fact, he was a hundred and six, and soon would turn a hundred and seven. People younger than him—men and women born in 1967—were touring schools now, among them Pamela Anderson. She’d been the first baby born in her hometown in British Columbia on the actual day of Canada’s hundredth birthday, and her own rollback, performed just a few years ago when the price had fallen enough that mere TV stars could afford it, had left her as lovely as when she’d first graced the pages of Playboy.

Don no longer looked that young; physically, he was now forty-four or so. His hair was mostly gone again, but that was fine with him. He was feeling better this time around than when he’d gone through his forties originally; it had been six decades since he’d had his one and only heart attack.

Lenore also was in her mid-forties—but doubtless not middle-aged. The cost of rolling back would continue to drop; seven million people had already undergone the procedure. By the time she needed it, they’d be able to pay for a rollback for her, and—the thought was staggering, but doubtless true—they’d be able to afford a second rollback for Don.

As they drove along, Amphion and Gillian were bickering, while Zethus was just looking out the window at the crowded streets of Toronto. Despite being named for twins, the Draclings had grown up to be distinct individuals. Amphion had blue-black skin and two small fluted crests running down the back of his head, while Zethus had teal and silver skin and three crests. Each boy was distinct in character, too. Amphion was adventurous and outgoing, and incapable of letting even the smallest irony go unremarked upon, while Zethus was cautious and shy with strangers but enjoyed word games almost as much as his father did.

Don looked at them in his rearview mirror. “Amphion,” he said, “stop teasing your sister.”

Amphion swiveled two of his four eyes to look at Don. “She started it!” Each Dracon eye had a unique visual range: two saw to varying degrees into the ultraviolet, the third saw into the infrared, and the fourth saw into both but not in color; the combination of eyes the boys chose to bring to bear on an object not only affected what it looked like to them but also how they felt about it. They also possessed a sense that had no terrestrial analog, enabling them to detect heavy objects even when they were out of view.

Amphion and Zethus each had five limbs: three legs and two arms. If their embryonic development was a reliable echoing of their evolutionary history, the two front legs had evolved from what had been pelvic fins in an earlier aquatic form, and the thicker rear leg was derived from what had been a tail fin. The arms, meanwhile, had developed not from pectoral fins, as in humans, but rather from the complex array of bones that had supported two ancestral gills.

Dracons had only three fingers on each of their two hands, but they nonetheless came honestly by the base-ten counting system used in their radio messages. The boys each had ten feeding tendrils around their mouth slits—two pairs of them above and a row of six below; Zethus was using his tendrils just now to maneuver a hunk of cotton candy that Gillian had passed through a small airlock to him. Because their four eyes were recessed in bony sockets, Dracons couldn’t actually see their own tendrils, so whatever help they were in math involved some mental picture of their deployment, rather than actually counting them.

The original Expo 67 had been subtitled, in phrasing that seemed horribly sexist only a few years later, “Man and His World.” This Expo 67 had no subtitle that Don was aware of, but “Humanity and Its Worlds” might have been appropriate: people had finally returned to the moon, and a small international colony had been established on Mars.

And, of course, there were other worlds, too, although they didn’t belong to humanity. As the timing would have it, it was now 18.8 years since Sarah Halifax had sent her final message to the stars, acknowledging receipt of the Dracon genome and explaining that her designated successor would help create Dracons here. That meant that Sarah’s pen pal on Sigma Draconis II was just now getting word that what he’d asked for was going to be done. There was, everyone assumed, a celebration of that news going on right now on that alien world; it seemed fitting to have a matching celebration here, and it would be held tonight. One could transmit signals to Sigma Draconis at any time of the day from Canada, but it seemed appropriate to beam a message into space when the stars were actually visible, although the lights from Toronto would drown out the dim sun of the boys’ ancestral home.

At the ceremony, a statue of Sarah—as she’d looked in 2009, when the first message was received—would be unveiled. After Expo 67 ended, it would be moved to its permanent home out front of the McLennan Physical Laboratories. Following the unveiling, greetings would be broadcast to Sigma Draconis not just by Amphion and Zethus—who had been sending weekly reports there for ten years now, although none of them would have been received yet—but also by dignitaries from the dozens of countries that had pavilions at the fair.

Traffic was moderate, and after an hour, the Dracmobile was getting close to their destination. Don had come back to Toronto often over the years to visit his grandchildren, and—more recently, heartbreakingly—to attend the funeral of his son Carl, who had died at the obscenely young age of seventy-two. He took this pilgrimage on each trip, but Gillian and the boys had never been this far north in the city.

As they drove along Park Home Avenue, Don was saddened to see that the library he so fondly remembered was gone. Most libraries were, of course. Don was a bit of a Luddite, and still had a pocket datacom, but Lenore and Gillian had web-accessing brainlink implants.

He drove the van into the cemetery—another anachronism—and parked it as close to Sarah’s grave as he could. The boys put their filter masks back on and they all walked the rest of the distance, kicking through fallen leaves as they did so.

Don had brought a virtual bouquet with a cold-fusion battery; the hologram of red roses would last almost forever. His kids, normally boisterous, understood he needed a quiet moment, and gave it to him. Sometimes when he came here, he found himself overwhelmed by memories: scenes from when he and Sarah were dating, events from early in their marriage, moments with Carl and Emily as children, the brouhaha when Sarah had decoded the first message. But this time all that came to mind was the celebration, almost twenty years past, of their sixtieth wedding anniversary. He’d gone down on one knee then—as he had just now to place the flowers. He still missed Sarah, every single day of his life.

He stood up and just stared for a time at the headstone, and then he read Sarah’s inscription. He turned and contemplated the blank space next to it. His own planned epitaph—“He was never left holding a Q”—wasn’t quite as nice as hers, but it would do.

After a few moments, he glanced at Lenore, wondering how she felt knowing he’d end up here, rather than next to her. Lenore, whose freckles had faded over the years, and now had fine lines on her face, must have read his mind, for she patted his arm and said, “It’s okay, hon. Nobody from my generation gets buried, anyway. You paid for it; you might as well use it… eventually.”

Eventually. In the twenty-second century, or maybe the twenty-third, or…

The age of miracle and wonder. He shook his head, and turned to face his children.

Sarah, he supposed, was nothing special to Gillian: just his father’s first wife, a woman who had died years before she’d been born and none of whose DNA she shared—not that such trivial concerns would have mattered to Sarah. Still, society didn’t have a name for such a relationship.

There was no special name for what Sarah was to the boys, either, but they would not exist without her. Amphion was staring thoughtfully at the four names on the headstone—“Sarah Donna Enright Halifax”—and must have been contemplating the same thing, for he said, “What should I call her?”

Don considered this. “Mom” wasn’t appropriate—Lenore was their mother. “Professor Halifax” was too formal. “Mrs. Halifax” was still available; Lenore, like most women of her generation, had kept her birth name. “Sarah” conveyed an intimacy, but wasn’t quite right, either. He shrugged. “I don’t—”

“Aunt Sarah,” said Lenore, who had always called her “Professor Halifax” in life. “I think you should refer to her as ‘Aunt Sarah.’”

Dracons couldn’t nod, so Amphion did the slight bow that he’d adopted to convey the same thing. “Thank you for bringing us to see Aunt Sarah,” he said; one of his eyes was looking at Don, while the other three faced the headstone.

“She would have loved to have met you,” Don said, and he smiled in turn at each of his three children.

“I wish I could have known her,” said Zethus.

Gunter tilted his head and said, very softly, “As do I.”

“She was a wonderful woman,” Don said.

Gillian turned to face Lenore. “You must have known her, too, Mom—you were in the same field. What was she like?”

Lenore looked at Don, then back at their daughter. She sought an appropriate word, and, after a moment, smiling at her husband, she said, “Skytop.”