may Arthur Sanchez

Sitting Shiva For My Father

Alexander Maria Rodriquez, Johnson, Sung, Paparov, Levine, etc., etc., etc., looked across the length of the green valley and saw the approaching man-thing for what it was--a machine. Alexander couldn't be fooled; he'd known for a long time that he was the last human being left in the universe. Besides, the machine strode through the trees with a strength, beauty, and grace that no man (no living man) could hope to match.

Alexander tried to rise to meet his guest but first had to dislodge Clarence from his lap. "Come on, boy," the old man whispered, "company's coming." The large orange tabby glared at him before moving with exaggerated care to the pillow being offered. Alexander forgave him his mood. Of the two Clarence was senior (in relative age), and that was very old indeed, so allowances had to be made.

Alexander straightened his coarse smock and tried to stand straight. If he'd known the machine was coming he would have worn a better suit. The machine, oblivious of the disruption it was causing to Clarence's life, strode up confidently to the very steps of the building. Alexander stared at it from where he stood. It was a good design. Much better than the segmented Octopod form it had chosen to use the last time it visited. Its hair was a fine jet black, its skin showed a healthy tan, and its eyes were gray; the same shade as Alexander's.

Alexander understood instantly what the machine meant. They'd rarely communicated over the years. The machine's journeys across the universe routinely took it far from the normal range of transmissions. But when they did, the machine had a peculiar habit of using a verbal shorthand. It always got straight to the point--as if all the pleasantries and words in-between were unnecessary.

Good, Alexander thought, he'd waited long enough. Looking around his valley, Alexander took in the sight for a last time. It was early autumn and the leaves on the aspens surrounding his home had hardly begun to turn colors yet. He had hoped to see them turn one last time. Oh well, life's a bitch and then you...Alexander took a deep breath and coughed a little. It had gotten cold.

He looked at the machine as it stood there waiting. At least it hadn't forgotten its manners. It would not enter until invited to do so. "Let's go in then," he said. "I've made some food. Are you hungry?"

The machine turned his head and sampled the air by taking long sniffs. Sensitive receptors in his facial cavities caught and analyzed the atoms that wafted by on the wind. "Chili?" Its voice contained just a hint of disapproval.

The interior of Alexander's home was a bright and airy space of wood and stone. He'd rejected the style of his parents' home. They'd been scientists and had favored steel and glass. Alexander saw himself more as an artist and sought harmony with the natural world. There were sculptures of marble, paintings filled with power and color, and a handful of musical instruments he'd attempted to learn and which he now played badly. There were also more than a dozen cats who, like Clarence, were permanent residents.

"Sit there," Alexander said as he pointed to an old wicker chair by the dining room table. "I'll get supper." He moved over to the kitchen counter. The two rooms opened onto one another. It made getting the basics easier.

"I know you don't want to be a bother. And I know you don't need to," Alexander said as he collected the bowls and utensils, "but you are more than capable of sampling organic material. Think of it as an experiment. It would be like taking a soil sample on another world." Alexander smirked to himself, for he knew that was exactly what the machine considered his cooking. Then he added. "Besides, it would be nice to dine with someone."

The machine looked uncomfortable, as if the comment had been a reproach. He cleared off a mound of books and sat down. "We could clone you," he offered, continuing a different line of thought.

Alexander shuffled over with two bowls of his hottest chili. Lately, he'd taken to increasing the spices. Food was starting to taste bland. "And what would be the point of that?" he asked as he set the bowls down.

The machine sat up straight, as if it were being tested. "The first imperative of any living creature is self-preservation. The second imperative of any living creature is reproduction."

Alexander scooped up a large spoonful of the angry red chili and slurped into his mouth. The fire of the peppers burned his tongue in a way only a true aficionado could appreciate. "Hmmm, good. Try some." The machine hesitantly obeyed. "You are correct, of course, on both counts," Alexander answered him. "But we've done all we can on the first imperative. Nature, eventually, must be allowed to take its course. As for the second imperative, I'm too old to be of any assistance. Luckily, the human race has already seen to that need," Alexander gulped a second mouthful of beans. "I'm looking at our offspring right now."

"No," Alexander admitted, "but you are our children." Alexander's face softened. "Like biological offspring, we brought you into this universe. We gave you life, a sense of purpose, and a thirst to learn what is yet unknown. We instilled you with all that we cherished in ourselves. Not being able to pass on to you our genes, we gave you the only other thing we had of value--our spirit."

Alexander chuckled. Five millenniums of independent thought and self-awareness and still the thing did not understand symbolism. "I did not mean that literally. Though, I must admit that sometimes I've thought that myself. No, I suspect finding the limits of our own abilities is what finally broke the human race. When we'd learned all that we could physically learn, when we'd gone to all the places we could physically go, when we found it necessary to send machines to seek out what was beyond our reach-- I think that is when we lost that spark which has fueled the human race since creation. We lost the need to learn, to grow, to seek out the horizon. In short, our spirit died. We," he said thumping his chest with an arthritic hand, "found ourselves without a purpose."

Alexander reached out and patted the machine on the cheek. The flesh was warm and soft. "No, child," he said as gently as he could, "you did not. Our time had simply come to an end. When one species gives birth to another--a smarter, stronger, more adept one, nature tends to regard the parent species as superfluous. We," he said with a shrug, "no longer mattered. When we created you, we created the future."

"Humanity," Alexander said with a raised finger, "is more than individuals. It is a history, a lineage, and a culture. Any cells you would clone now would be disconnected from the past. They would be as much human as the cats that prowl this room. They would know nothing of us. You, on the other hand, have within your countless microscopic processors the entire wealth of our species. You have all our knowledge, our history, our stories, and our art. You know what we were like--our flaws and our good points. Because of that you are our true inheritors."

The machine remained silent as it processed this information. "Then, we are your children," it acknowledged. "Sir, are you proud of us?" It was a question the machine had obviously wanted to ask from the moment it had arrived.

"Yes, I am," Alexander assured him. Then Alexander grimaced as the chili kicked in and his stomach began to protest what his brain should have thought twice before doing. "Oh, that's not good," he said with a sharp intake of breath. "I suppose you were right about the spices. I, ah, I think I'd better lie down." He rose slowly "You finish your supper and we'll talk about this some more later." He patted the machine on the shoulder before shuffling off to the bedroom.

The machine watched him go in silence. Unnoticed by Alexander, all of the cats in the room had also stopped in their various activities in order to watch him move off. Their luminescent eyes glowed in the warm reflection of the evening light.

The machine cocked his head to one side as he recorded the readings. Respiration was slowing. Blood pressure was dropping. The rhythm of the old man's heart faded as it lost a beat, then another, and then finally became still. There was a short exhalation of breath and then silence. With that sigh, an entire race came to an end. Oddly, the machine couldn't help but think that it should have been more momentous--that a million years of history should not have ended with a sigh.

Then a warm and soft sensation occurred at the base of his legs. The machine looked down to find Clarence rubbing himself against it in an attempt to get attention. The machine reached down and picked up the cat, depositing it gently on his lap. The cat, having obtained its goal, flopped down expectantly.

The machine knew that it did not have to leave right away. It did not have any appointments to keep or a timetable to meet--the universe would wait for it. It was also aware that there were rituals that needed to be performed. Its records were filled with the ceremonies humanity had developed for such occasions. It felt strongly that being the last of his kind did not mean that the man should be denied a proper remembrance. So the machine sorted through his files and selected a ceremony he thought best suited the occasion, and he began to pet Clarence.

"Father," he said to the cats, "always thought of himself as a good cook. Though, if you had sampled the data, you would not have reached the same conclusion. I remember one day when he decided to bake a cake. I had carefully written down the recipe for him from the historical records. But you know father," he said with a smile. "He hated recipes."

And the cats all gathered around his feet, because he looked human and had a soothing voice, and they listened. While outside, the sun--now a brilliant orange orb resting upon the horizon--set upon an ancient world.