Romo was admittedly old fashioned. He liked to do things the hard way. His colleagues knew this well and were discreetly condescending. His friends saw no reason to be discreet at all, and made frequent and hilarious reference to his idiosyncrasies as a matter of course. They had a lifetime of anecdotes to offer and they offered them at will--initiates to their circle were eventually treated to the entire opus. Romo didn't mind. It bothered him more to know that there were others telling the same stories about him, but in whispers, disdainfully, and without affection.
Sitting alone in the dark, he once heard a group of his subordinates in the corridor with a new flight of technicians.
"Don't let Romo distract you," he heard his field manager advise.
"Romo?" one of the new techs inquired.
"Dr. Romboli, the Director."
"What's the problem with Romboli?" another asked.
There was a great deal of laughter before one of the knowing voices could get to the punchline: "He gardens!"
This drew fresh peals of laughter from those who knew the director and, no doubt, blank stares from the techs.
As the ensuing mirth subsided, Romo heard one man inquire: "What the hell's that supposed to mean?" answered only by another round of laughter. "Gardens...!"
Laughter followed the assembly down the corridor.
+++++
Romo was in the same corridor himself now, perhaps 500 LinearUnits from his quarter. Few of the faces gliding by expressed surprise at the sight of his moving feet or at the beads of perspiration collecting near his temples from the exertion. He took this route almost daily and the passersby had seen it all before. They knew he liked to do things the hard way. Still, they couldn't help staring. They had no idea how he accomplished the trick or why.
Romo insisted on Walking whenever he could. Of course, in the corridors it wasn't such a simple matter. He had to fit his shoes with a dampening device to keep the locomotors in the floor from propelling him onward. But this made him invisible to the sensors, and if he wasn't vigilant, an onrushing pedestrian could easily knock him off his feet. There had been close calls in the past, and angry words.
But today Romo was in good cheer. The biomass converters in his little Garden were proving to be highly efficient (skeptics be damned) and the panels could be expected to illumine nearly 18 fractions a day. And--even better news--it looked like the nutrient emulsion had finally been optimized to support maximal vegetative growth. There would be Sallid again before the cycle was through.
Tonight it would be an EveningMeal from the dispensary in his quarter. Romo was looking forward to it--perhaps with a glass of 72. He was a creature of habit. Throughout his childhood, First Day evenings were 814Ba. What did the runts in the Cordon call it now? Flambago? Something bago. Fandango maybe. Romo remembered that they used to call it Galamalatta, because it tasted like a cross between 229Cc and 464Bf. There was even a rhyme to go with it: `Galamalatta... something something... think you oughta... something something... gimme a Galamalatta.'
But that was a long time ago. There weren't many people who even bothered to dispense the 464-series meals anymore--let alone 229Cc. He didn't blame them though. Food was as subject to the whims of fashion as anything. He could still remember the look of humiliation on his mother's face when his father once ordered a 969A at the Core dispensary. Romo didn't understand what the big deal was at the time, but when he looked back on it later in life he could see his mother's point. Dad wouldn't have made that choice on a first date. Funny thing was, though, 969s were coming back into vogue.
Maybe he would try a 969 himself one of these days, just for a change. Tonight, however, was First Day evening, and that meant only one thing: gimme a Galamalatta. His subordinates could laugh about it behind his back all they wanted. They just didn't know what they were missing.
++++
Romo was slightly winded by the time he got to his quarter. But it felt good. He was glad to be back. How did the saying go--`if it ain't my quarter it ain't no quarter at all'? Ancient wisdom.
Romo stopped to admire the façade. The new entrance was stunning, easily the most recognizable of the entire Core. And after all this time, people still flooded the optron to get a look at it--not that many of them wanted one for their own quarters. Still, Romo was secretly pleased with the attention. He had invested a lot of capital in getting the original hatch removed. Access was now regulated by a purely mechanical barrier, secured with a device known rather quaintly as a Dead Boat. Romo tapped the alphanumeric sequence into his Key and waited for the gears to engage. He was slightly apprehensive. If the Lock malfunctioned again he'd be forced to sleep at the Directorate--and then suffer a new round of derision from the techs at Physical Plant come First Shift.
The hum of the mechanism was dangerously strained. Even more alarming was the grinding of the door as it slid into its pocket. There was obviously a bit of troubleshooting left to perform, but at least Romo wasn't denied access. He stepped inside and the door rumbled to a close behind him.
The interior panels wouldn't automatically adjust to his presets so he stood at the threshold for a moment in the dark. One of the first things Romo had done when he took up his cells was install a Switch in every room that could take the lighting algorithm on or offline at a touch. Romo was fascinated with the notion of a Manual interface. He'd wanted to get his HighSpeedTransporter similarly fitted out, but the Ministry was obstinate in its refusal to sanction the modifications.
Romo's acquaintances found his passions rather unnerving. But he characteristically rejected their concerns with a dismissive wave. There was no reasoning with them, he knew. Few ever ventured into his quarter anyway--most couldn't get past the idea of having to Step from place to place (many indeed looked ridiculous in their clumsy attempts)--and since Romo had long ago ordered the glide propellants to be stripped from his quarter, there was no other way to get around.
Romo fumbled around for the Switch. But when the panels came online he nearly jumped--for there was Freona, beautiful as ever, in shimmering blue evening wear, shooting a mournful look at him from across the room.
"My dear! What's wrong? What are you doing here in the dark?" he asked.
"I've been waiting for you. I met with a specialist today."
"Oh?" he answered weakly, not sure how much she knew or what he ought to reveal. "I've been in the garden..."
She looked at him for a moment, then said simply, "I'm dying."
Romo was staggered. The color drained from his face.
Everything had to die eventually, he knew. But she was still so young. He wanted to take her in his arms, tell her it would be all right, that he loved her. Instead, he stood there, swaying unsteadily on his feet. "My God," was all he could utter.
He fumbled about for a chair and sat down heavily. Freona smiled slightly at the absurdity of the tableau. She'd never seen a chair in any other quarter and wondered what museum would have provided Romo with such a preposterous design. It didn't even look safe.
"They say it will end in madness, dementia," she offered flatly.
Romo put his face in his hands and allowed the tears to fall.
Freona was silent for a moment, watching as the ridiculous chair rattled to the tempo of the old man's sobs.
"Remember the panic attacks? The spells of confusion? Apparently, it's all tied to the memory loss. So much is gone already..."
"Gone already?" he nearly shouted. How much had she been withholding from him?
She went on: "You knew all this time that I wasn't well--but you just brushed it aside." She looked directly into his eyes as she made her accusation. But her voice was soft, confused rather than angry.
"How could I have known the extent...? I--I mean, I'm not a specialist. I--I love you."
Somehow, despite the uncertainties and her growing confusion, she knew he was telling the truth. And somehow, despite the improbability of someone like her having any feelings at all--especially for a man of his generation--she was aware that she loved him in return. She didn't want to hurt him--but she needed to understand. "Is this what you wanted?" she asked him cruelly.
Romo was jolted by the question. He wished he knew what the specialists had told her. Instead he stammered, "How--how could you say such a thing?"
"Please," she whispered, tears beginning to roll down her cheeks, "there isn't much time."
"But--"
"I just want to understand."
Romo buried his face in his hands again. "Oh my dear, dear love. What have I done?"
"Tell me. What have you done?"
"God forgive me." The words were choked and nearly unintelligible "I signed your death warrant."
Freona stared at him without comprehension.
Romo tried to catch his breath, then went on, picking his words with effort: "Everyone dies. It's what makes life precious. It's what makes the living precious. I wanted to treasure you. I wanted you to treasure the life you were given, the time you--"
"How?" Freona hissed. "How could..." She stopped for a moment, confused. "how...could... dying... why didn't you tell me it was coming?" Each word was like a blow to the old man's chest.
"Oh, God, I know," Romo sobbed. "Was I mad? I wanted to give you life... B-but I never knew when to tell you. You developed so fast. And then--I--I pushed it out of my mind. I couldn't bear to think about it. I--hoped--I believed--my time would come first..."
Freona said nothing. She just stared.
"...and it might still come first. I'm old and weak. When I instructed the programmers to corrupt your code, I was assured it would take hundreds of cycles before the accumulated flaws would lead to a terminal error..."
Freona still said nothing, but the tears had stopped and she looked calm.
"...and even though I was afraid to tell you, and--I did--I--I stole your chance to realize the brevity of life--still, I knew. Even when I tried to push it from my mind, I knew. And it did make you precious. It made your life precious to me. You're not a machine..." He gestured vaguely to the sundry devices he'd carefully stripped from his cells. You're alive--and--" He looked into her calm blue eyes. "Can you forgive me...?"
Freona said nothing for a long while. Then she twitched and the screen went blank, and then she was back and smiled. "Dr. Romboli. How are your vegetables? Physical Plant tells me that your design for the biomass converter was an unexpected success. You know they were wagering against it?" Romo just stared at the screen with swollen red eyes.
"Are you all right, sir?" she asked, suddenly concerned. "You don't look well. Won't you tell me what's wrong?" Romo wanted to reach out to her, but he couldn't. He couldn't tell her what was in his heart. He could only watch, his chest aching, as her eyes suddenly lit up. "You haven't forgotten what day it is, have you?"
Romo said nothing. He no longer had any appetite.
| 
