A Talent for War
attic bedroom was at the top of the house, on the fourth floor. The louvers on its twin windows were shut. A pair of idalia trees reached toward them; the branches of one twisted into a king's seat which I'd loved to climb, thereby scaring the blazes out of Gabe. Or so at least he'd allowed me to think.
    I opened the cockpit and stepped down from the skimmer. Snow continued to whisper out of the sky. Somewhere, out of sight, children were playing. Excited shrieks echoed from an illuminated avenue a few houses over, and I could hear the smooth hiss of runners across white lawns and streets.
    A sodium postlight beneath an oak threw a soft glow over the skimmer, and against the melancholy front windows. A familiar voice said, "Hello, Alex. Welcome home."
    The lamp at the front door blinked on.
    "Hello, Jacob," I said. Jacob wasn't really an AI. He was a sophisticated data response network, whose chief responsibility, at least in the old days, had been to maintain whatever conversational level Gabe felt up to, on whatever subject Gabe wished, at any given time. That would have been cruel and unusual treatment for a real AI. But it was sometimes hard to keep Jacob's true nature in mind.
    "It's good to see you again," he said. "I'm sorry about Gabe."
    Page 15

    The snow was ankle deep. I hadn't dressed for it, and the stuff was already into my shoes.
    "Yes. I am too." The front door opened, and the living room filled with light. Somewhere in back, music stopped. Stopped. That was the sort of thing that gave life to Jacob. "It was unexpected. I'll miss him."
    Jacob was silent. I stepped inside, past a scowling stone demon that had been in the house long before I came to it, removed my jacket, and went into the den, the same room from which Gabe had recorded his final message. There was a sharp crack, as of a branch snapping, and flames appeared in the fireplace. It had been a long time. Rambuckle had been a cylinder world, and there had never been wood for burning. Nor any need to. (How long had it been since I'd seen snow? Or experienced inclement weather?)
    I was back, and it felt suddenly as though I'd never been away.
    "Alex?" There was something almost plaintive in his tone.
    "Yes, Jacob. What is it?"
    "There is something you need to know." In the back of the house, a clock ticked.
    "Yes?"
    "I don't remember you."
    I paused in the middle of lowering myself into the padded armchair I'd occupied in the sponder.
    "What do you mean?"
    "The lawyers informed you there was a robbery?"
    "Yes, they told me."
    "Apparently the thief tried to copy my core unit. The basal memory. It must have been a possibility that concerned Gabriel. The system was programmed, in such an eventuality, to do a complete wipe. I have no recollection of anything prior to being reactivated by the authorities."
    "Then how—"
    "Brimbury and Conn programmed me to recognize you. What I'm trying to tell you is that I know about us, but I have no direct recollection."
    "Isn't that the same thing?"
    "It leaves a few holes." I thought he was going to say something more, but he didn't.
    Jacob had been around for twenty years. He'd been there when I was a kid. We'd played chess, and refought the major campaigns of half a dozen wars, and talked about the future while rain had splattered down the big windows. We'd planned to sail together around the world, and later, when my ambitions grew, we'd talked of the stars.
    "How about Gabe? You remember him, right?"
    "I know I would have liked him. His house indicates that he had many interests, and I feel safe in concluding he was worth knowing. I console myself that I did know him. But, no: I don't remember him."
    I sat for some minutes, listening to the fire, and the sound of the snow at the windows. Jacob was not alive. The only feelings involved here were my own. "How about the data files? I understand something was taken from them."
    "I checked the index. It's rather strange, really. They took a data crystal. But it could

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