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The summer that Harold was ten years old, a dog crawled under his front porch to die. Not his dog—they didn’t have one anymore—but the brown curly-haired mutt that had belonged to the Murphys up the road until they disappeared under cover of darkness one night, running from the taxman, or so Harold’s father said. It got hit by a car, and although it didn’t look hurt aside from holding one paw off the ground as it shuffled back and forth in the sun-slatted gloom, there must have been internal injuries. It whimpered, and then there was silence for a long time, and then it began to whimper again, and Harold stopped holding his breath.
The dog knew it was dying; Harold’s father said that was animal instinct. It just wanted a safe place to spend its last hours, so no predators could attack it while it was vulnerable. It should be left alone, though of course Harold didn’t do that. Hurt things could be fixed, and if only he could get it to come out, they could take it to the vet. He sat waiting for a while, and then he got down on his hands and knees and inched toward the dog. When he got close, he reached out for its collar, and then his own instincts kicked in, warned by a low growl, and his fingers just avoided the snapping teeth. He backed out quickly, shaking, and went off to do his chores, but returned an hour later with a bowl of water, which he placed close enough that the dog could reach it without moving very far. It might not be good for it to move, but he was too afraid of being bitten to get any nearer.
For the rest of the day, he sat by the steps, reading aloud from a battered paperback of Asimov’s Nine Tomorrows. He wasn’t sure whether the dog liked to hear his voice, or cared, but it made sense that it might like to know a person was there. On the other hand, the Murphys had left it behind when they ran. But probably dogs weren’t smart enough to grasp that kind of betrayal and apply it to all humankind. If it felt betrayed, it would be by the car that had hit it. By a machine.
At about eight o’clock in the evening, the dog limped out and lay down with its head in Harold’s lap, gazing at him with terrible understanding and trust. And then, not too long after, just as “The Last Question” about entropy reversal went asked and unanswered for the third time, it died.
He never quite forgot the look in its eyes at the moment it chose him for its sanctuary, or the heavy stillness of death resting against his thigh. Many times in the years to come he woke up gasping for breath, himself the dog, or the dog’s killer, or just the witness it hadn’t really needed in order to let go. And then he got older, and had other dreams; other nightmares, too, like the blankness in his father’s face, like black cars following him down dead-end streets, like the ferry.
He hadn’t thought of the dog in twenty years at least, the night John Reese was shot by his former employers, and fell heavy into Harold’s arms; and because he helped him into the back seat of the car, no warm head on his lap, he didn’t think of it then, but something tickled at the back of his mind. He did remember after meeting Bear—the Asimov, no doubt—and when he and John stood on a rooftop, seconds from death or life, the hope in John’s eyes hit him with a gut-punch of memory. Confidence. Faith. A refuge sought and found, even if it didn’t equate to being saved. Even if they blew up.
They didn’t, not then. Their lives were full of crashes and explosions, of thermal energy expended never to be reclaimed, but… not with a bang but a whimper, he couldn’t help thinking, as the world slowly tilted on its axis after Hanford, after the Machine was free. At first, John’s trust in him seemed unchanged; but he made more of a point of being Harold’s employee than he had before, which at first Harold put down to making Ms. Shaw feel like part of the team, setting them on an equal footing. Shaw didn’t care, of course, but she did seem to enjoy bantering with John, playing juvenile tricks on him, joking about stealing Bear. In the end, though, she was a loner, proud of self-sufficiency, though happy to take Harold’s money; she was the dog who’d crawl into an empty house to die, and never come out to make a small boy feel he’d created connection.
John, though; John was… not a dog at all, any more than Shaw was; they were both complex human beings, but Harold began to hear that warning growl whenever he tried to get close, which only made him try to reach John all the more. He found himself snapping at Shaw: nasty, petty remarks like the ones that his otherwise kind father had let escape in the frustration of forgetfulness. You’re not good enough, he kept telling her, not as good as him, not as good as what I imagined I had. As what I ruined. He knew it had to be his fault when John stopped meeting his eyes. He’d asked too much. Too much of a burden, letting the Machine speak to him directly. Too much, to know about only some of the wounds Harold had inflicted. It got worse as Ms. Groves came back into their lives and her affinity with the Machine became clear. Harold wanted to wrap a Faraday cage around John, too, and banish the crackling electrical anger.
And then Joss Carter died, and the accusation of betrayal in John’s eyes was all too human, but Harold could see the dying dog behind it, feel the teeth closing on his hand.
Then John was gone.
*
“You didn’t have to come to Italy.”
It was the first time John had spoken since they’d left the café table. Harold had made desultory tourist guide conversation as they strolled along, his voice sounding high and nervous in his own ears. He was all too aware of John’s arm brushing against his, of John matching his slow pace on the tricky cobblestones, of the possibility that John might still cut and run.
“No,” he said after a pause. “I suppose I didn’t. It was easier to make arrangements for Owen’s new identity in person, but Crane and Partridge have business associates of the right sort here. Or I might have sent Ms. Shaw.”
“I would have deserved that.”
“No, Mr. Reese,” Harold said, stopping and turning, oblivious to inconvenienced pedestrians. “What you deserved was an explanation, better than the poor one I managed to offer. I’m grateful beyond words that you—”
“Harold.” Don’t be an idiot, Harold: what John would never say.
“Yes, well. Rome is far warmer than New York at this time of year. And I did want to see that exhibit.”
“We can still fit it in. I’ll have to wait for the suit.”
Harold nodded and resumed his slow perambulation. What he meant, and John knew it, was that coming to Rome had been self-punishment: a place that Grace loved; a place from which he would fail to retrieve John. Seeking out pain was easy, addictive; it was what John had been doing as well.
“Where were you going?” he asked. “Your ticket was for Istanbul, was that…?”
“I thought about traveling on to Ankara,” John said. “I’ve never been there.”
“A place with no memories.” John nodded, slowly, and Harold went on, “What would you have done there?”
“Drink a lot?”
“Mm. Possibly not the first choice of country for excessive alcohol consumption, but you prefer a challenge.” He waited till they’d walked a few steps further, then added, “The trattoria we just passed. Who were the customers?”
John snorted; he knew what Harold was up to. “You want to know about all of them? Or maybe one in particular. University student waiting to make a drug deal. Nice-looking woman with a scarf that matches your tie, frowning over financial papers. The old American guy whose wife flinched every time he lifted his hand.”
“And why is it that we need the Machine, I wonder?” It was a rhetorical question, if not exactly a joke, so Harold was surprised when John answered.
“Because we can’t save them all. Because sometimes it’s good to have the choice made for you, to have one less reason to say ‘I fucked up and someone died.’ You’re right, Harold. I would have gone to Ankara and tried to save people. It’s what I do.”
He didn’t sound happy about it. “The Machine makes… more analytical choices than we could,” Harold said, “which doesn’t necessarily make them the better choices. At this point in its evolution, I think it needs us as much as we need it. If ‘need’ is the correct word. We are more than legs and gun hands to it, no matter what Ms. Groves thinks. And to us, it is more than a tool, but less than a conscience.”
“It helped you save a hundred and thirty people. Although… if I’d let Owen be killed, or if I hadn’t been there in the first place, Carlos wouldn’t have tried to crash the plane.”
“And the Machine put you on the plane anyway. I presume it had its reasons. Even if someone in Ankara is being deprived of your services as a result.”
They turned a corner, and came out of shadow into sunlight: old stone, glowing warm; shop windows; the brightness of faces and clothes and hope. John looked around, a dark figure assessing, unimpressed, spotting the security cameras. “New York will do fine,” he said after a moment.
“I’m glad,” Harold said softly, and then added, “Rome’s a good city for suits, though. And art. And… sitting and drinking espresso, would you care for—”
“You drink espresso?” John said, with a twitch of his mouth that meant he was amused.
“When in Rome, as they say. If you’re tired of walking…”
John took Harold by the arm and steered him to a café table. They ordered, doppio and macchiato; sipped in fragrant, fragile silence. Finally John said, his voice tight, “If the Machine is evolving, what do you think it’s evolving into?”
What rough beast, slouching toward Bethlehem? “Nothing human. Nothing that will… replace us.” Find us superfluous, he didn’t say. Inexpedient. Unmanageable. Embarrassing. “Mr. Reese, I know you were angry, that it’s very difficult to—”
“You said that already, Harold.”
“And then I tried to equate my grief with yours. I’m sorry. We all… process our feelings in different ways.”
“Yeah.” John took a sip of coffee, then added, “Shaw behaving herself?”
“She’s done extremely well. I’ve appreciated having her assistance.”
“Tell her that.”
“I will.” Harold paused, then said, “She’s not you, though.”
“Just as well.”
“John,” he said, and on impulse reached across the small table to lay his hand over his companion’s. John twitched slightly, then held still. “I chose you. Not the Machine. Me.” He wouldn’t be so insistent if it were true, but it had to be said nonetheless.
“The human touch,” John said dryly, looking down at their hands, and then turning his upward to clasp Harold’s. “It never would have worked out, with Joss,” he said, not looking up. “We just… you try to hold on to something, when death is that close. Try to make your life make sense.”
“Animal instinct,” Harold said. He hoped he was hiding his surprise at the revelation, but the tremble in his fingers betrayed him, and John glanced at his face. “Human instinct,” he corrected; but he was thinking of the dog limping toward him.
“It just hurt so much,” John said, and then fell silent, clearly defeated by words, but he didn’t need to say more. He’d driven himself on, stoic through bullets and bruises and broken bones; it took heartbreak to make him admit to pain. Harold, knowing himself surrogate to a ghost, tried to slide his hand away; John grasped it more firmly. “Don’t let go,” he said.
“I won’t. I’m here.” John’s thumb stroked against the side of Harold’s hand; he returned the caress. Whatever it meant. Human instinct: mere anarchy loosed upon the world. But also trust and belief, and the ability to love and be surprised by love. You try to hold on to something, when death is that close. Or life. Entropy couldn’t be reversed; or could it?
“Insufficient data for meaningful answer,” he muttered.
“What?”
“Never mind.” He gave John’s hand a squeeze. “Finish your coffee. We have a suit to buy.”