Rollback

He knew he’d made her feel bad earlier, when she’d been trying to remember the title of that movie, and he hated himself for it. Why had he been patient when his days were numbered, but impatient now that he had so much time? He’d tried not to snap at Sarah, he really had. But he just couldn’t help himself. She was so old, and—

The phone rang. He glanced at the call display, and felt his eyebrows going up:

"Trenholm, Randell." It was a name he hadn’t thought about for thirty years or more, a guy he’d known at the CBC back in the Twenty-Teens. Ever since the rollback had gone bad for Sarah, Don had been avoiding seeing people he knew — and now he was doubly glad they didn’t have picture phones.

Randy was a couple of years older than Don was, and, as he picked up the handset, it occurred to him that it might be Randy’s wife calling. So often these last few years, calls from old friends were really calls from their surviving spouses with word that the friend had passed on.

"Hello? "said Don.

"Don Halifax, you old son of a gun!"

"Randy Trenholm! How the hell are you?"

"How is anyone when they’re eighty-nine?" Randy asked. "I’m alive."

"Glad to hear it," Don said. He wanted to ask about Randy’s wife, but couldn’t remember her name. "What’s up?"

"You’re in the news a lot lately," Randy said.

"You mean Sarah is," said Don.

"No, no. Not Sarah. You, at least in the newsgroups I read."

"And, um, what groups are those?"

"Betterhumans. Immortality. I Do Go On."

He knew gossip about what had happened to him had to have spread further than just the block he lived on. But "Yeah, well" was all he said in reply.

"So Don Halifax is rubbing shoulders with the movers and shakers," said Randy.

"Cody McGavin. Pretty impressive."

"I only met him once."

"Guy must have written you a pretty big check," Randy said.

Don was feeling more and more uncomfortable. "Nah," he said. "I never saw the bill for the procedure."

"Didn’t know you were interested in life prolongation," Randy said.

"I’m not."

"But you got it."

"Randy, look, it’s getting late. Is there something I can help you with?"

"It’s just that, like I said, you know Cody McGavin—"

"Not really."

"And so I thought maybe you could have a word with him, you know, on my behalf."

"Randy, I don’t—"

"I mean, I’ve got a lot to offer, Don. And a lot of things still to do, but—"

"Randy, honestly, I—"

"Come on, Don. It’s not like you’re special. But he paid for your rollback."

"It was Sarah he wanted to have rollback, and—"

"Oh, I know, but it didn’t work for her, right? That’s what they say, anyway. And, look, Don, I’m really sorry about that. I’ve always liked Sarah."

Randy apparently expected a response, as if having made this obeisance he was now due something in return. But Don remained quiet. After the silence had grown to an uncomfortable length, Randy spoke again. "So, anyway, he did it for you, and—"

"And you think he’ll do it for you, too? Randy, I honestly don’t know how much all the work I had done cost, but—"

"They estimate eight billion on Betterhumans. Most people on I Do Go On think it’s more like ten."

"But," continued Don, firmly, "I didn’t ask for it, and I didn’t want it, and—"

"And that’s pocket change to the likes of Cody McGavin."

"I don’t think that’s pocket change to anybody," said Don, "but that’s beside the point. He can spend his money any way he likes."

"Sure, but now that he’s doling it out to let some of those who aren’t insanely rich have a rollback, well, I thought, you know, maybe…"

"There’s nothing I can do for you. I’m sorry, but—"

The voice was getting more desperate. "Please, Don. I’ve still got a lot to contribute.

If I had a rollback, I could…"

"What?" asked Don, his tone sharp. "Cure cancer? It’s been done. Invent a better mousetrap? Gene-splicers will just make a better mouse."

"No, important things. I’m — you don’t know what I’ve done in the last twenty years, Don. I’ve — I’ve done things. But there’s a lot more I want to accomplish. I just need more time, is all."

"I’m sorry, Randy. Really, I am—"

"If you’d just call McGavin, Don. That’s all I’m asking. Just make one phone call."

He thought about snapping that it had taken forever to get through to McGavin the last time, but that was none of Randy’s business. "I’m sorry, Randy," he said again.

"Damn it, what did you do to deserve this? You’re not that special. You’re not that bright, that talented. You just fucking won the lottery, is all, and now you won’t even help me buy a ticket."

"For Christ’s sake, Randy…"

"It’s not fair. You said it yourself. You aren’t even interested in transhumanism, in life extension. But me, I’ve spent most of my life pursuing that. ‘Live long enough to live forever’ — that’s what Kurzweil said. Just hold on for a few more decades, and we’ll have rejuvenation techniques, we’ll have practical immortality. Well, I did hold on, and it’s here, the techniques are here. But I can’t afford them."

"They’ll come down—"

"Don’t fucking tell me they’ll come down in price. I know they’ll come down in price.