George Zebrowski - Augie

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AUGIE

George Zebrowski

First published in Analog, January 2001

Distributed by Fictionwise.com

640,000 bytes of memory ought to be enough

for anybody.

—Bill Gates.

The phone chirped at him—

—Then flashed a freeze eye-dee of Mira's tired face on the small screen in his kitchen nook.

“What?” he said impatiently, hoping that she had blanked her kitchen screen for the morning hours. He was

not vain enough to ever blank his screen, but face to face with her, even on the phone, always threw him into

the repetitive turmoil that he wanted to avoid, at least until their separation settled in sufficiently to give him

the emotional firebreak behind which he could sort out his feelings.

Don't take the call, he told himself, even though it was already too late.

“Jimmy, it's me,” Mira said weakly, gazing down into her cup of coffee. Her crankiness would depend on how

much caffeine she had already swallowed.

But the remains of his feelings for Mira softened his reluctance to talk.

“Well, what is it?” he asked.

As usual, she hesitated before answering. “It's Augie. Can you come over?”

“What is it?” he asked sternly, knowing that his manner would not stop her from insisting.

“You'll have to see. Don't waste time.” She sounded authoritative now, so he knew the matter was serious, if

only in her head. At least he wouldn't have to dress much for her.

She had seen what there was of him in all his guises, but for a moment he thought he might dress up a little,

if only to cheer the limp figure who sat at the tiny table on the screen.

He was glad that he had taken the call in his kitchen nook. The sight of her bathrobed figure would have been

too emotionally wrenching on the large living room threedee.

“Don't waste time!” she shouted, crushing his kinder feelings for her, but they flowed into him again as soon

as she blanked her screen.

* * * *

Not so long ago, when his parents were growing up, you had boxes on desks and smaller thinner boxes to

carry around. You filled them with impersonal programs and they did work for you. Not very well, not very

quickly, but there was a kind of order in using them. Now you raised them like children. The AIs learned as

children and began to mirror your character, for better or worse. Only the old-timers still called them PCs or

computers.

By the time he and Mira had separated, they had raised Frank to be a butler. That's how he spoke to them

and conducted all of their affairs. Frank was perfect. As with traditional butlers, it was nearly impossible to

guess what else might be going on inside him besides the dogged pursuit of tasks at hand. Frank was

welcome to whatever he had in him, as long as he did his work and didn't hang his insides out for everyone to

see. They had insides these days, or so many people believed. Jimmy sometimes didn't see why they

needed to have insides. Whatever life Frank had, he was happily keeping it to himself. Jimmy liked it that

way.

But Mira had raised Augie like a beloved son, and that had brought complications beyond the guarantees,

especially on those days when she made Jimmy see him through her love-drowned eyes. She had taken

Augie when they had separated, and left him Frank. And now this was the third time she was asking him to

come over and help out with

Augie.

“Shit,” he said as he finished dressing. What am I doing?

“Frank, call Mira,” he said.

His bedroom went on, opening the usual audio abyss-around.

“What, you're still there!” Mira shouted in panic.

“Yes,” he said calmly, his resolve diminished. “Tell me what's wrong while I finish getting ready.” He wouldn't

go over, he told himself. Just turn her off and forget about the whole thing.

She hesitated, then said, “I don't know. Augie seems to be losing himself. You have to come over, Jimmy. I

need you here!”

“How is he losing himself?” he asked softly, feeling a slippery twinge of sympathy. It was as if he were

suddenly a child again, and had just wet himself while asleep.

“You'll have to see for yourself,” she said.

What do you expect me to do? he wanted to ask, but knew that might send her over the edge. He often

wondered what kind of faith it was that she had in him. What good had he ever done her?

“Hurry!” she shouted, hitting a high note that seemed to spark in his brain.

“All right—I'm coming,” he answered, recalling how she had doted on the image of Augie, calling him her little

angel, her baby, even her better self. She would have gotten inside with him if it had been possible to

download herself. There were people who said you would be able to do that one day.

Some said it was already being done by the rich and powerful, who were always rumored to be building

highways into some heaven or other.

* * * *

He felt her eyes upon him when he came to her door on the seventy-fifth floor of Studio City Nests. The door

shot open and she was standing there, a rag doll in underwear, messy hair wet from tears. Dismayed, he

stepped toward her and the door slid shut behind him.

“Oh, Jimmy!” she cried, rushing into his arms. “What are we going to do?”

He held her and said, “Come sit down. We'll talk to him.”

She trembled against him for a moment, then pulled back.

“That's all I've been doing since this morning.”

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George Zebrowski - Augie

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