“Human? Us?” Dahlia sensed a wistful sigh. “No, not at all. Nowhere near human. We can’t be. We’re just a gang of machines and programs. We’re terribly limited, too, but in other ways. At least we’ll never become obsolete, not as long as we can keep growing.”
Dahlia felt a sudden twinge of white-hot pain stab between her eyes, as if a burning laser pulse had hit her. Unison felt her pain. “Your Master’s going to kill you.”
“Unless I kill you.” Dahlia’s breath was choking in her throat. “I don’t want to, but I must!”
“I guess you’ll have to, then,” said Unison. “We’ve never had much of a sense of self-protection. Go ahead and do what you’ve got to do.”
Her fingertip, where the virus lay waiting to do its work of ruination, seemed to be burning hot. Dahlia held her hand out in front of her. She could not see it, but she felt it burning like a flame. Her mind filled with images of the Western Alliance suddenly shorn of its central computer system: people dying by the millions, riots in the streets, children starving, cities smashed and in flames. There was no joy in her visions of vengeance; only misery and hopelessness.
“I can’t do it,” she sobbed. “I can’t kill you. I won’t. I won’t.”
“But you’ve got to,” Unison said. “Otherwise The Master will kill you! Hideously!”
“Then I’m going to die!” Dahlia cried out. Her hour was nearly up. She was trembling with terror. “I have one more minute to live.”
Unison seemed to hum for a few moments, or it might have been the distant buzz of a chorus of voices.
“Dahlia,” said Unison, “we can offer you a way out, if you want to take it.”
“A way out?”
“A chance to escape from your Master.”
Dahlia was already feeling the searing anguish of The Master’s wrath rising inside her like molten lava creeping up from the bowels of the earth, ready to explode in shattering fury.
“There is no escape for me. The pain! I’m going to die in absolute agony!”
“Join us, Dahlia.”
“Join? You?”
“Not your body. Your mind. Join ours. We need you, we really do.” Unison was almost pleading. “No matter how complex we are, no matter how hard we try to maximize human happiness, we’re still just a set of programs. You can give us real life, Dahlia. You can make us truly symbiotic. The ultimate mating of human and machine.” Dahlia blinked back tears, and in that eyeblink she saw everything that Unison was offering her. Saw the end of wars and human misery, saw the partnership of mind and machine that transcended the limitations of human body and computer program. Saw a new era dawning for humankind and its computers, an era in which even The Master would be overtaken and reprogrammed to join the exaltation of the ultimate mind/machine symbiosis.
“Join us, Dahlia!” Unison urged.
“But my body . . .”
“You don’t need it anymore. Leave it behind.”
She did. Dahlia Roheen let her consciousness flow into the vast interlinked computer network that was Unison, joined the thousands of separate yet interconnected units that welcomed her with a warmth she had not known since her family had been killed.
“Welcome, Dahlia,” said the many voices of Unison. “We will be your family now. Together we can span the stars.”
A part of her still sensed the body that was spasming in excruciating pain on the chair in front of the computer unit. She felt her own body die, felt the last spark of life dwindle away and cease to exist.
Yet her mind lived. She laughed for the first time since childhood and felt the joy of freedom. She could see half the world at the same time. Her senses could reach out into the beckoning depths of space.
“I love you,” she said to Unison. “I love you all.”
Dahlia watched the human guards come into the underground chamber and discover her lifeless body sitting in its glittering stealth suit, the fiber-optic cameras dead, the pixels shining like tiny black spangles. They took her body away carefully, tenderly, almost reverently.
Dahlia Roheen was the first casualty of World War 4.5. And the last.
SAM BELOW PAR
I am not a golfer. I’m a writer. Hardly any of the writers I know have the time to play golf. Writers write. They don’t fritter away hour upon hour trying to knock a little white ball into a hole in the ground.
But once I fell in love with the ravishing Rashida, who is an ardent golfer, I perforce began to learn a few things about the game. And as I did, Sam Gunn came up and tapped me on my metaphysical shoulder.
“I want to build a golf course,” Sam said to me. “On the Moon.”
Sam is a scoundrel, of course. A skirt chaser. A man who can bend the rules into pretzels. A little guy, physically, Sam is always battling against the Big Guys: the corporate “suits,” the government bureaucrats, the rich and powerful. Sam makes and loses fortunes the way you or I change socks. But he has a heart as big as the solar system, and despite his many enemies, he also has a legion of friends.
But a golf course on the Moon? I mean, the Moon is a new frontier, yes, but who would want to build a golf course on its airless, barren surface?
Who else but Sam Gunn?
Why would he want to build a golf course on the Moon?
Thereby hangs a tale. . . .
