I could have protested, of course. She had the credits — financial, green, and gray. An attorney easily could have argued that she was owed at least three more days. Maybe four. Maybe five. Enough to sample a few last meals, maybe go see what was left of the pyramids, try a few last moments on luxury on a floating island.
I wasn’t even sure I could take the three hours.
“In here,” a nurse said. She gave me a measured look. Some people get mad if you don’t fight the terminations when you can. Other people admire you.
“Hey,” I said, when I entered.
I was the only one there. Not a real surprise. I was her only child. Her only sister had chosen early termination. I had no idea where my father was — he’d been one of the protestors, back in the day — way back in the day — so chances were good he’d been terminated somewhere, and no one had alerted me, or that he’d managed to go anti and completely off grid, like the various antis. A short-term solution, at best — antis were always, always caught. Better to work up green credits if you were that desperate.
Or just accept things as they were.
Like the fact that my mother couldn’t eat anymore.
Termination.
Or the fact that I’d never been to a termination before.
I felt ill.
“Hey,” I repeated.
She didn’t turn.
I wasn’t surprised.
“They’re telling me three more hours, right?”
No response.
“So.”
I moved closer to her bed.
The facility was dismal — scratches on the walls, faded paint everywhere, scruffed floors, in proud support of avoiding waste, of course. But at least here, on and right around the bed, someone had done a nice job of arranging things — little stuffed animals, a few framed pictures and one tablet cycling through images, a bright quilt. Plenty of color. They said that was critical, for the second part of termination — the chances of intact transfer were higher if the subject had something colorful or beautiful or meaningful to see in that last second.
I was sure my mother hated it. Stuffed animals were a waste. Framed pictures even more of a waste. Tablets running programs that no one was using or paying attention to, the ultimate waste. She hated waste.
One reason I hadn’t seen her in years.
“Anything you wanna watch?”
Still no response. Her tubes were still attached; a machine still beeped. We had just a little under three hours left.
“Or drink? Eat?”
That got a response — an eyeroll. One I probably deserved. The termination was mostly because of her age, but also because her digestive system had largely stopped functioning about a month before — much earlier than it did for most people. Suggesting food was cruel.
My stomach still worked though, and I hadn’t eaten since I’d been informed about the termination.
“Ok. Think about what you might want to watch, or talk about, while I go get something for me. I’ll be right back.”
I wasn’t.
The cafeteria options were all terrible, and my watch reminded me that I wasn’t allowed to consume that much anyway, after my binge a few days before. I looked, and paced, and looked again, and debated, and paced some before, before I finally managed to settle on some low impact, local fruit — something my watch approved of — and some recycled water.
I didn’t manage to swallow either before I returned to the room.
She hadn’t moved.
“Hey,” I said again. I could tell that I was going to regret not having more to say than, “Hey.” “I’m back.”
Which wasn’t much better.
I pulled up a chair.
“I suppose I should say something,” I said.
Silence.
“Something.”
She never did like my jokes.
“Damnit,” I said.
Damnit, indeed.
Three hours. Too long, if the transfer process worked as scientists said it would. Too short, if it didn’t. If I didn’t have the chance to say everything I’d ever wanted to say.
The chance she seemed to be giving me right now.
I gulped down some of the recycled water.
“So,” I said. “What sort of new planet are you hoping to end up on?”
I didn’t really expect an answer, but I got one.
“Snow.”
It was a harsh, drawn-out whisper.
“Snow,” I repeated.
I’d never seen it in person. Oh, some of it was still around, up in the mountains, or at the poles, but getting to see it in person cost credits.
Credits she’d never let me have.
Credits I’d ended up passing to her as an adult, so she could get the alterations and changes she demanded.
Credits she wasn’t using, right now, to give us more time.
Credits I wasn’t making her use, right now, to give us more time.
I wondered if she’d ever seen snow. I wondered if I should ask.
“I’m kinda hoping for something wild. You know. Monsters and stuff.”
She turned her face from me.
“Or, you know. Snow.”
Her face stayed turned. I took another sip of water.
They’re supposed to leave you alone at these things, until the very last few minutes. But either time had passed faster than I’d realized, or the machines had indicated something was wrong, since a new nurse entered just then.
“Hey,” I said. It seemed to be my word for the day.
“Hello,” he said, to both of us. “I’ll be handling the termination and transfer. I’m just here to check on a few things.”
“Of course,” I said. One of my legs was shaking. It did that, usually when I was bored. Medical staff could use things like that as grounds for earlier termination. The nurse was kind enough not to point that out.
“I see you’ve made arrangements for separate storage,” he said instead.
Well. That didn’t need to be said in front of my mother. I tried to play it casual. “You know what they say about microspace when a regular house feels a bit cramped.”
Whatever they said, I was not going to spend an unknown number of years trapped in microspace with my mother’s consciousness. Even if I wasn’t really me, only a scan of me. No. She and I would be stored on different microchips. She’d have her sister there. That was cruel enough.
“—no need to possibly zap the computer.”
He must have heard similar things before. He just tapped his tablet. “As long as you’re certain. This will be difficult to revoke.”
“Certain.”
The nurse looked at my mother. “And you?”
“Certain,” she whispered.
More taps on the tablet. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
I regretted drinking the water.
Termination, I reminded myself. Not death. That’s dead and gone with. No wonder everyone hated my jokes. Termination. You might even see her — well, a version of her, at least — on another planet. Or planets. If they ever manage it. See a double sunset someplace. Or ten moons spinning around, all at once.
“Snow,” my mother whispered.
“Snow,” I said. “And moons. Lots of moons.”
I know. I know. Transfer is perfectly safe. I’ve seen all the stats. I’ve watched the same reports you have. It’s a static thing. You see whatever you’re thinking about, whatever you see, and then you wake up, like no time has passed, just like going under for surgery. And then you’re there, on the new planet, your consciousness ready to put your skills and knowledge to work under a new sun, or suns.
“Sunsets.”
I also know what people have told me: that it’s all a lie. Just something meant to shut us up about termination. That you’re better off going the anti-route and accepting death. Real death. That everyone goes crazy after transfer, not really alive, not really dead, unable to really do anything, see anything.
Unable to see the sun.
Unable to play in snow.
That even if it did work, most of the time, you’d never see anyone you’d ever known, ever again.
Especially if you arranged for single storage.
Probably why my father had gone anti. If he had gone anti. If that wasn’t a lie, too.
“Double sunsets.”
She’d told me once, some story about a young man born on a planet with double suns, who had gone on to fly among the stars.
That was before my father had ghosted us both.
The nurse returned just then, as promised. Well. It had been a few minutes.
My mother had the credits. I had the credits. This place could use the money.
“Another hour?” I said.
It was an hour and a half by the time I finished the paperwork. Another hour and a half to sit by her, to hold her hand, to think of other places, other planets, with or without sunsets and snow.
Before I had to watch her leave for a place without sunsets. Or snow.
